She stared at him for a moment.
“No. Not right now. Not really,” she said.
Matt did not seem to register that she was answering his original question about whether she had a boyfriend. Enemy fire picked up intensity with orange tracers whipping overhead.
“Get ready,” he said, lifting the shotgun. “As soon as the heavy fire stops, I’m popping up. If I get hit, you grab the shotgun and defend yourself until special ops gets here.”
Suddenly he could hear only the echo of automatic gunfire rumbling along the valley floor.
“Screw that,” she said, standing with him.
Matt immediately picked up one man moving low, holding an AK-47 at the ready. Matt raised the shotgun, felt two shots zip past his ear, and then dropped the attacker with one shot to the torso.
“Watch out!” Peyton shouted. She spun around and grabbed the AK-47 of another man, who had approached them from the backside. Three shots ripped from the assault rifle, spewing powder and fire into Peyton’s face as she pulled him into the ditch, using his forward momentum as an assist.
Matt spun, placed the shotgun on the man’s forehead, and noticed Peyton was holding the AK-47. It took every ounce of control he had not to pull the trigger, and perhaps he should have, but he saw Peyton standing atop this enemy combatant, taking deep breaths and staring down at the man with frightened eyes. She wanted to kill him. He could see the blood-lust in her eyes.
“Don’t do it,” he whispered.
Those eyes darted toward him and then back toward the Middle Eastern man lying in the ditch, staring at both of them.
“Go to hell,” she said, lifting the rifle.
“Let me ask him a few questions first,” Matt said, lifting his hand and pushing the AK-47 away.
She quickly moved the weapon back and fired a single shot into the man’s head, killing him.
“Damn it! What the hell did you do that for?” Matt shouted.
“He tried to kill you. You should be thanking me,” she said. “Watch yourself.” She pointed her rifle at the grenade in the man’s hand.
Matt looked at the dead man, then at his hand. The grenade, pin still intact, was nestled in the palm of his hand reminding him of how a pitcher might grasp the ball for a changeup. He looked up at Peyton, then over the lip of the ditch.
“They’re jumping in broad daylight,” he muttered.
“What? Who?” Peyton asked.
“Special Ops.” Matt lowered his head again, trying to avoid becoming a target for too long. He moved to another portion of the ditch and reemerged. As he peered over the ledge, he saw four square parachutes deploying dangerously low to the ground.
“They’re landing on the roof,” he said in amazement at the balls of the four paratroopers. While he had done that himself in a previous life, watching it was another thing all together.
He heard four small thumps as the commandos landed on the hangar. Though he could no longer see them, he could visualize their actions. In less than ten minutes, the hangar would be under the control of the special operations forces.
“Let’s move. Maybe we’ll draw some fire and take some heat off the spec ops while they move,” Matt said.
“The least we can do,” she muttered sarcastically.
“Let’s go,” Matt said, leaping from the ditch and dashing toward a small copse of trees to his left. He watched Peyton emerge from their protected space. She was holding the AK-47 and looked like she might have stuffed the grenade in her coat pocket. Interesting.
Matt could hear the stray rounds zip through the trees overhead. They had been seen, but clearly the shooters were not aiming their fire.
“Hear that?” she said.
Rapid gunfire was echoing from inside the building. They were short bursts that Matt knew from experience were typical of close-quarters combat. Multiple shots in short succession indicated surprise and defensive actions. The special operations guys would be using silencers for the most part, so he took this as a good sign.
“Let’s move now,” Matt said, rushing toward the building. This time, there was no fire as they slammed into the side of the hangar, breathing hard.
“Door?”
“Door. I’ll go first,” Matt said.
They slid along the hangar wall until they reached the gray metal door secured by a small hasp and padlock.
“Watch out,” Matt whispered.
He butt-stroked the padlock, which held, but the hasp came swinging free. He kicked the door into the hangar and did a combat roll through the opening, coming to one knee and looking down the shotgun’s barrel. He felt Peyton move into the room and go to his left… just how an infantry fire team performed the drill.
“Clear right,” he said, instinctively.
“Clear left,” she responded.
They moved slowly in the darkness of the hangar, letting their eyes adjust.
“Listen,” Matt whispered.
It was the sound of a small aircraft engine cranking.
“That’s Ballantine’s Sherpa. Let’s go,” Matt said, running to the far side of the hangar only to be pushed back by intense machine-gun fire.
Peyton laid down a base of covering fire, but was unclear where she should be aiming. Matt rolled to the right and felt an explosion push them backward. His first reaction was that it was a thermite grenade. He hoped that he was not fighting with friendly forces but didn’t figure they would be down from the upper floors of the hangar yet.
Suddenly the hangar doors flew open. Through the smoke, Matt saw the Sherpa taxiing rapidly along the apron, then lifting off quickly and banking hard to the north.
Running outside, he took two hapless shots at the low-flying aircraft, as if he were shooting quail that had already taken flight beyond his reach. He had done it before and once even got lucky with a long shot.
But not this time.
“You okay?” Peyton asked, jogging up next to him.
“Yeah. That was Ballantine’s plane. But we’ve got to find the special ops before they shoot us.”
“Let’s check out what they destroyed,” she said.
They scrambled to a smoking hulk of scrap metal. The contraption was totally disfigured and nonfunctional. Matt recognized it for what is was immediately.
“No way to tell what that was,” Peyton said.
“On the contrary. You’ve been asking me about this since I met you.”
CHAPTER 27
Matt was thankful that the link-up with the special operations team had been uneventful. Apparently the four operatives who had jumped in had been briefed that he and Peyton were in the vicinity and possibly armed. Colonel Rampert’s MC-130 command and control aircraft had landed, and the special ops commander himself had deplaned to personally inspect the scene.
“Jack Rampert,” the colonel said, holding out a large, leathery paw.
“Matt Garrett,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “This is Peyton O’Hara.”
“Know all about Miss O’Hara here,” Rampert said.
Matt raised an eyebrow.
“Sir,” Peyton said, shaking his hand.
“Got two wounded men,” Rampert said. “The terrorists are dead. I’ve called the FBI. They’re on the scene, blocking the locals from gaining access to this place. I’ve got another crew coming in to do sensitive site exploitation. We also found one weird, scientist-looking dude in the tunnel network down below.”
“Below?” Peyton asked.