Laws did the same to his right. Holmes was on his left. Which meant that Yaya was opposite him. They paused for a moment. Then both Laws and Holmes gave another hand signal. Ruiz closed his eyes tightly, but a moment later, even through his closed lids, he saw the surface of the sun simultaneously to hearing a tremendous bang. He opened his eyes and followed the flashbang grenade to the boxes, which were shoved together in a solid mass. Not even one beegee could have fit inside there.
“Turning on lights,” Holmes said as he switched off the night-vision/IR scope and turned on the light attachment affixed to his MP5.
Everyone else did the same. Four spears of light stabbed through the darkness. The room was empty.
Not that Ruiz was trying to find things to worry about, but there should have been someone there. Where were the guards they’d seen on the imagery? Why wasn’t anyone there guarding the chimera? Unless …
He moved to one of the crates and rapped against it. He was rewarded with a hollow thud.
“Boss, these are empty.”
Yaya rapped on several as well. “These, too.”
“What the fuck?” Laws looked around. “Think it’s a trap?”
Holmes knitted his brows. “Walker would have let us know.”
“Hoover as well,” Yaya added.
“Still…” Laws gestured toward the empty crates.
“Come on, SEALs,” Holmes said decisively. “On me.”
The other three formed on their leader and they moved quickly out the rear bay. When they reached the door, he stopped and kneeled. Yaya did the same beside him. Ruiz and Laws stood with their weapons ready. They listened to the night. Animal screams answered them from the jungle. Then they heard another sound. Scratching.
They immediately looked at the jumble of crates before them. Maybe they weren’t all empty.
“Spread,” Holmes ordered.
The SEALs separated. They each went into a crouch, their heads on a swivel, weapons pointed toward the crates.
Something was worrying Ruiz as he crept forward. An image of the crate and the crazy Chinese captain flashed through his mind. Hadn’t his blood been the catalyst for the chimera? If so, where was the blood this time? There wasn’t anyone else here and he found it unbelievable that Walker would have let someone approach the crates while the rest of the team was in the building. He glanced toward Walker’s hide site. He heard the sound again, but it wasn’t coming from the boxes. It was coming from beneath them. He was about to shout a warning when the floor dropped out from under him.
52
Walker saw them move out of the warehouse, then disappear. No, not disappear. They fell through the ground. He started to climb down from his perch, but thought better of it. An image of Holmes’s angry face shot through his good intention. He remained where he was but stared through his scope, hoping to see something to shoot.
Hoover growled from beneath as if she knew something was wrong.
“Easy, girl. Let’s see what’s going on.”
Suddenly the sounds of a firefight rent the night. He heard the distinct rapid-fire burps of the MP5, the angry barks of the shotgun, and the dull stutters of AK-47s.
What the hell was going on?
The sound of vehicles came from the front of the warehouse. Three five-ton trucks lumbered around the building. The firefight continued, but at a lesser rate. He saw Yaya crawl out of the hole and stagger to one of the boxes. He’d lost his shotgun. He pulled his 9mm from his thigh holster and in one move fired at the two men coming after him.
The trucks made the turn and rammed into the crates. Wood exploded into splinters. Crates tumbled. Yaya disappeared beneath an avalanche of broken and splintered wood. The trucks skidded to a halt. Men in uniforms poured out the rear of each vehicle. Walker tracked them through his scope. He wanted so badly to take a shot. But there were too many of them. If he fired, he’d only succeed in bringing attention to himself.
Damn!
As the soldiers surrounded the hole, the sounds of firing diminished to nothing. The soldiers cheered.
Walker bit his lip.
He watched as the bodies of Holmes, Laws, and Ruiz were dragged out of the hole and carried into one of the trucks. More bodies were pulled out. He was gratified to see that there were five dead soldiers for every dead SEAL.
His chest tightened at the realization that his team was dead.
The soldiers weren’t messing around. Once they had the bodies loaded on the trucks, they climbed aboard and started the engines.
Walker felt helpless. He wanted to shoot, but he knew that someone had to survive the mission to tell Billings and NAVSPECWAR Command what happened. He pounded the tree with his fist as the trucks pulled away.
Hoover took off after the trucks.
Walker called out to her, but the dog was single-focused. What she’d do to the trucks if she caught up with them, Walker had no idea. But he shouted his encouragement. “Get ’em, girl! Chew their hearts out!”
He watched until the trucks and the dog were out of sight, and then he shouted to the universe. “Motherfucker!”
It took five minutes for him to compose himself enough to climb down from his perch. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled out his pistol. He held it in a two-handed grip angled toward the ground as he walked morosely toward the killing zone. With the lights off, it was hard to see, but he didn’t need the lights. The image of the location was burned into his mind and would remain there forever.
Sometime during his mini-breakdown it had occurred to him that Yaya was still beneath the crates—he hadn’t seen them take him. The least he could do was to check the body and confirm what he already suspected.
When he arrived at the rear of the warehouse, he flicked the light on his pistol to On. He moved carefully to the hole. It was a rectangle, about fifteen by thirty feet. Judging from the litter of boards ten feet down, it appeared to be nothing more than a large animal trap. He could imagine its construction—a series of long boards down the middle, boards along the sides, all covered with dirt.
There were still more than a dozen bodies in the bottom of the hole. Many had been shot in the face by a shotgun, eyes, noses, cheeks, mouths obliterated into a single mush of blood and gristle. Even more were stitched with MP5 rounds. It had been a horrendous firefight. Blood covered every surface in the trap. By the litter of shells, he could tell it had been a shooting gallery. His brothers had really had no chance.
He turned and examined the avalanche of crates. There was no sign of Yaya. He tried to move a crate and found them only moderately heavy. Using both hands, he could move them one at a time. So began the project of moving and hoping. With each crate moved, he searched for signs of his brother SEAL. But it was as if Yaya had vanished. Walker moved eleven crates and still there was triple that amount.
Then he heard a moan.
It had to be Yaya. Walker waited until the sound came again; then he located the direction and began slinging crates out of the way as fast as he could. He didn’t care where they went or even if they fell into the hole. His entire focus was on the sound of the intermittent moans.
He saw a booted foot. By the make of the boot—Hi-Tec—he could tell it was Yaya. The SEAL was faceup beneath a crate. Walker moved two more crates, then was finally able to lift the crate off his friend.
Yaya’s face was covered in blood and his left arm was twisted at an awkward angle, but otherwise he seemed okay. Then again, there was no telling what kind of internal bleeding or organ damage he’d suffered.
Walker kneeled beside him. “Hey, wake up. Where does it hurt?”
“Ungh. Everywhere,” Yaya answered, as if he were on Valium.