Bart returned the head-butt, hitting the man in the wounded eye. Bart bit the man’s nose savagely, teeth locked down on whatever flesh he could find, tearing at him.
The man bucked and grunted and let go of Bart’s wrist.
Bart plunged the blade to the hilt in the soldier’s neck. Pulled it out, and struck again. The enemy went still.
Bart pushed himself to his feet, retrieved the submachine gun, and hobbled toward the bathroom door.
He felt a searing pain in his side, and there was the feeling of being punched. He thought he heard shots from across the canal. The other team had been alerted.
Bart fell, crawling toward the water.
Rounds smacked off the concrete patio and through the lush foliage around the pool. Kicking with his one good leg and using his elbows, he struggled into position behind a palm tree.
He lay still, listening. He heard muffl voices.
He brought up the scoped weapon and swept Suzanne’s dock and patio. The scope was not equipped for night vision, and Bart could see nothing. The enemy probably had access to night vision contacts, giving them a distinct advantage.
The canal was about thirty feet away. Bart decided to go for it. The enemy crew might be trying to cross the canal at one of the bridges, or they might swim for it. There was no way to know. He kept the weapon out in front of him.
The moonlight revealed two men coming down the walkway across the water, headed toward the dock.
Bart fired.
The men hit the deck. Bart squeezed off another burst, still moving forward, and then the magazine was empty and he was at the water’s edge. He tumbled in.
Rounds zipped through the water around him, and the water was sharp and cold, not welcoming in the way it was on sunny summer days. He let his weapon fall to the bottom and took a gasping breath before exhaling, emptying his lungs of air, feeling his buoyancy disappear. He sank into the darkness and let the current move him along.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Good Guys
Henry lost track of time while he tried to cut through the plastic ties binding his hands behind his back. All was dark, thanks to the hood over his head. There were no sounds beyond that of his own breathing and the steady chaff of plastic against metal as he wiggled his hands. It felt like he’d been there a long time. He heard a door open and footsteps on the concrete floor.
The cage door rattled open. Someone pulled the hood off. Simmons. He and Wallace stood over Henry looking down at him with something like sympathy.
“This isn’t right,” Henry said. “Simmons, you know me. I’m no traitor.”
“It doesn’t feel right to me,” Simmons agreed. “Unfortunately, I follow orders. I’ll make it quick.”
“These people are evil, man. You’re taking orders from Stryker?”
“From an admiral, actually. I’m sorry, Wilkins. Duty first. Hood on or off?”
“Look me in the eye when you do it,” Henry growled. “I want you to remember my face.”
“Fair enough.”
Simmons reached for the holster strapped to his thigh.
Henry did not close his eyes. He straightened his back, knees burning, and thrust his jaw forward. Defiant.
It was quick.
Wallace, who hulked just behind Simmons, grabbed Simmons’ wrist, twisting his arm into a hammerlock. There was the sound of twigs snapping and Simmons opened his mouth to scream.
Before he could make a sound, Wallace’s right arm was around the man’s neck, squeezing. His left hand came up and locked around the soldier’s head in an unbreakable choke hold. Simmons lashed out with his feet as Wallace lifted him from the ground. Henry ducked.
Wallace released Simmons, who fell facedown, crashing into Henry.
“Bloody hell,” Wallace said, hauling Henry to his feet.
“Who are you?”
“Turn around so I can cut you loose.” Wallace had dropped the New York accent. He sounded foreign. Maybe Scottish. Henry complied.
“Take his weapon,” Wallace said.
Henry took the dead man’s pistol, a SIG Sauer.
“We’ve got to get to the surface,” Wallace said. “It’s about to get dodgy.”
Henry shook blood into his arms and hands, stretched his aching legs, and followed his new friend out the door.
He heard shouts, shots, and screaming. The sprinkler system came on, and the lights went out.
Henry activated his ICS contacts.
Wallace must have done the same, for when a uniformed soldier burst through a briefing room door, Wallace shot him in the chest.
They skirted the Rat Maze and jogged for the stairway.
Wallace fired again on the move. Two-handed grip, steady, knees bent, the sound of the shots amplified by the close space. Henry bounded after Wallace up the stairs.
They cut through the maintenance shed, and Henry saw that it was already dawn outside when Wallace cracked the door of the building. Wallace said, “Cut behind this building and make for the fence. The extraction team should be there.”
“Wait,” Henry said.
“No time,” Wallace grunted. He opened the door enough that Henry could squeeze through.
“Covering fire,” Wallace said, leaning into the scope of his assault rifle.
Henry ran through the early morning rain.
He put the concrete building behind him, aware of the shots ringing out from various places around the base. Leaning forward, he crossed the open grassy field toward the fence. He darted between empty helicopters. Behind him, the rattle of machine guns increased in intensity.
He spotted the flare of a muzzle flash ahead. He prayed those were the good guys. He lengthened his stride, sprinting full out now, the need for speed greater than the idea of making himself small.
The heavy thump of rotors echoed from the buildings. Henry couldn’t see it, but there was a helicopter inbound for sure.
A soldier in tan fatigues was waving him forward.
An MH-6 Little Bird swept overhead. Henry could see soldiers firing from the open side of the helicopter, feet dangling over the side. The bird landed on the other side of the fence.
He felt a round pass just over his head, close enough that his hair moved.
One of the men ahead pulled at the fence, revealing an opening. Henry threw himself down and went the rest of the way on his elbows, squirming through the hole.
“Where’s Wallace?” said a commando who looked like another lumberjack. Bearded, bulky, wind-beaten, probably in his forties, hair down to his shoulders.
“I don’t know,” Henry said. “He told me to run.”
“Fookin’ bollix,” the lumberjack said.
“McCoy, Riley. On me. You,” he said, peering directly into Henry’s face, “hop on that bird.”
Henry ran to the waiting helicopter, and soldiers reached for him, pulling him onto the tiny flight deck as the bird lifted off.
He held onto a strap mounted to the side as the nimble aircraft banked and dipped. They flew for maybe a mile before landing in the middle of a high school football field.
There were several helicopters on the ground, along with about twenty soldiers.
An officer was shouting orders and gesturing with his hands while several men leaned in to listen. The man turned, and Henry saluted.
Henry walked forward and grasped the man’s hand.
“Henry Wilkins,” Colonel Bragg said. “Glad you made it.”
“Sir,” Henry said, “We thought you were dead.”
“So did I, truth be told.”
“How did you escape?”
“I doubled back into the bunker because May was taking her sweet time. When the bombs hit we were trapped in the tunnel. Took me a couple of days to dig us out. May made it. She’ll hate me for the rest of my life.” He chuckled.