The young Lions swung into a second-floor hallway as Swanson bounded up the stairs at their heels and heard them pounding on a door, calling out, “My prince! My prince!” Just as a five-hundred-pounder exploded on the approach road between the village and the air terminals, Swanson knocked them aside and kicked in the door. The boys were in shock. It was the same man who had captured them earlier and then released them. They rolled onto their bellies, then got up and headed back down the stairs.
The cheap lock tore from the frame under the force from Swanson’s boot, and the door flew open and banged against the wall as he charged in with his AK-47 extended, sweeping the two small rooms, left to right, eyes following the barrel. A little cheap furniture and an empty bed, so he looked for possible hiding place as hell broke loose in the Wakham Corridor. Gibson had been there but was now gone.
Keeping his finger on the trigger, Swanson pointed the Kalashnikov down along his side and leaned wearily against a wall. His head pounded, his neck ached, arrows of pain crept through his back. It was delicious to rest for a moment, but there was no time for that, so he forced himself to retreat. The boys might come upon a little bravery and raise the alarm if he stayed, and, with Gibson once again on the move, there was no point in hanging around. He made his way easily through the frightened crowd, didn’t see the kids, and walked back to the waiting truck. “Let’s get out of here,” he told Thompson, and the big commando put the vehicle in gear, made a U-turn, and took the road back toward the old, destroyed house. They could call for the extract helicopter from there.
Things were sliding sideways and Gibson’s choices were narrowing. Where was Swanson? Were the strikes at the airfield a limited response, or was Washington going to throw more stuff into this nothing place? The people back in town would be looking for him, but he had no answers for them. Every minute that passed brought him that much closer to dawn, which would cost him the cover of darkness. It was time to get out of Dodge.
The small truck careered down the road away from the safe house, and he told the driver to get back on the side track to the lair of his Huey helicopter. He would just have to give Swanson a pass on this one; live to fight another day. The game wasn’t over. It had just gotten more unpredictable and interesting. Gibson didn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on what had gone wrong, or how. Safety first, and gather the pieces later.
Another truck was on the road, coming from town. Gibson used a night-vision monocular to get a better look, and the image changed from a dark shadow to a mounted machinegun with a man on it. Had to be Taliban, running around with no plan, looking to shoot down a chopper or just unleash ribbons of bright tracers toward the sounds of the passing planes, which were long gone. He didn’t need the Taliban tonight, and didn’t want them to know his destination, so he told his own driver to keep moving.
When the vehicles were side by side, heading in opposite directions, Luke Gibson locked eyes with Kyle Swanson in the opposite truck, and they were both momentarily stunned. Gibson pounded his driver on the shoulder and yelled, “GO! GO! GO!” The Afghan driver stomped the accelerator.
“It’s him!” roared Swanson, bracing against the dash as he turned in his seat. “Gibson is in that truck!”
Thompson slammed the brakes hard and twisted the steering wheel sharply to the left, sending the vehicle into a hard skid. In back, Brandt hadn’t expected the sharp change of direction and was almost thrown overboard by the centrifugal force, saved only by his handhold on the .50-cal. Swanson was jammed against the door, and the truck stopped abruptly when the drift was done. The engine stalled and died.
Gibson stared back at the little truck Swanson was in, bewildered to discover that the man was not only still alive but apparently also had help. Whether they were Delta, SEALs, or CIA did not matter. Their very presence decided the issue. His original plan of hunting down Kyle Swanson, all by himself in a war zone, was in tatters.
They were approaching the intersection at which the diagonal road from the chopper’s cave intersected with the main road. “Slow down, my friend,” Gibson said with an easy grin to buoy the man’s confidence. “Do not use the brakes, just slow down enough for me to jump out. I will go up the road on foot, while you go back into Girdiwal as fast as you can to bring back help.”
“Yes, my prince,” the driver replied, and removed his sandaled foot from the accelerator to let the truck coast. Gibson waited a few seconds, picked a landing spot, and rolled out, his arms cradling his long gun. The grit scraped him like sandpaper as he bounced into the scree before coming to a stop on his back, chewing dirt and rocks. When he looked up, the truck was just a tiny shape, although he could hear the engine straining with effort.
Turning around, he could hear the second truck cough back to life. Swanson was coming, and would be at this spot in less than thirty seconds. Gibson got to his feet, wiped his face, and trotted up the diagonal road, hugging the side and crouching in the inky dark when the Toyota went tearing past. All three men in it were looking straight ahead for their target.
“Open fire if he’s in range,” Swanson yelled up to Brandt, who was hunched behind the powerful automatic mounted in the truck bed.
“I don’t see him! I don’t see him!” Brandt called back. There was a faint dust cloud in the distance, but the target truck was on the other side, invisible.
They drove onward, but it was too late. “Stop,” Swanson said about a minute later. “He’ll make it to the town before we can overtake him, and we can’t go back in there again.”
Ingmar slowed and pulled to the side. Sweating heavily, he crossed his hands on the steering wheel and leaned forward to take a few deep breaths. His face remained impassive, but his forearms were burning: the strain of driving, staying on the road and not ending up in a tangled heap. “So now what?”
“Let’s call in the birds and get the hell out of here,” suggested Brandt, who had hopped down out of the bed and was leaning in the window.
Swanson slid out of the seat and walked around, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want to give up on him.”
“As usual, we don’t know where he is,” Brandt retorted, his voice hardening. “We barely even know where we are! Let me call the Blackhawks, Kyle. Don’t make this a personal thing with this asshole. Stay professional. Luke Gibson is just another fugitive now, and every cop on the globe is going to be looking for him. He’ll turn up sooner or later.”
“Bruce is right,” said Thompson, still breathing hard. “Luke can’t stay here in Girdiwal, because the Afghan Army will be searching it within a few hours. There are mountains all around, and we own the skies. Roadblocks will be strung out on every goat path. Cops everywhere will be looking for him, and the agency won’t rest until he’s bagged. Let’s go home, pal.”
Swanson understood the logic. Everything they said was true. But giving up the hunt when he had the momentum grated on him; he wanted not only to be in on the Gibson kill but to be the man who nailed him. He tossed off the itchy pakol cap and ran his fingers along his scalp. “Yeah, you’re right. He made me look bad, and I hate that.”
“Chill, bro,” said Brandt. “He made the entire intelligence community of the United States look bad. We’ll get him next time. Right now, I want to get you out of harm’s way for a thorough debriefing back at Langley. That’s the best chance of beating Luke. Now that we know he’s an outlaw, we’ll sic all the dogs on him.”