Ted Bell - Hawke

“Vicky, get on the floor!” Alex shouted as Golgolkin crumpled, dead before he hit the floor.

His clip expended, Alex ejected it, pulled a spare from the mag-holder strapped to his forearm, and slammed it into the grip of his Sig.

“Alex! Watch out!” he heard Fitz cry. He whirled as the bathroom door flew open and a tall, skinny boy dressed only in his jockeys opened up with an AK-47. The staccato noise of the weapon lasted but a second. Froggy, still on the floor, his Beretta in a two-handed grip, had put a small neat hole right between the boy’s eyes.

Alex climbed to his feet. Three down. He whirled around looking for someone else to shoot.

He saw two other bodies lying at Fitz’s feet. Somehow, he’d missed all that. He looked at the bed. Vicky was gone. He ripped the bed away from the wall and saw her, half-hidden by the first Russian Alex had killed. She’d done just as he said and rolled to the floor.

He bent down and pulled her up into his arms. Her hair and face were matted with blood but he soon determined it wasn’t her own.

“Alex—” she started, but he cut her off. Her eyes were wide, naked with fear, but there was definitely recognition.

“No time,” he said. “We’ve got to get out of here. Can you walk?”

“No, but I can run,” Vicky said with a feeble smile.

As he helped her to her feet, Fitz’s voice was in his headphones.

“Hostage is clear,” Fitz said. “Alive and well. How about it, Bravo?”

“Clear,” he heard Boomer say.

“Anybody down?”

“Nobody but bad guys,” Stoke said.

“Yeah, same,” Boomer echoed.

“Then let’s fooking get out of here,” Fitz said.

Having cleared two rooms, Stoke, Boomer, and the two Gurkha Bravo guys burst into a third. It had only one guard.

When Stoke kicked the door open, they saw the guard had dropped his AK-47 on the floor and was standing flat against the far wall with his hands in the air, red-eyed and white-faced with fear.

“I think you can handle this one alone, Skipper,” Boomer said to Stoke. He and the two commandos moved farther down the hall where the firing was heaviest. Stokely moved into the room, sweeping his HK back and forth until he reached the terrified young guard.

“What the hell wrong with you, boy?” Stoke said, sending the guard’s AK-47 rattling across the floor with a kick of his boot. “Big old black man scare you so much you ain’t even going to put up a fight?”

“I—I have orders to execute him, seсor,” the guard said in trembling but perfect English. “If there is any rescue attempt. But I do not want to do it. They say they kill me if I don’t do it!”

“Execute who?” Stoke asked, looking around the room.

“Him,” the guard said, pointing at the bed.

At first, Stoke thought the bed was empty.

Then he saw some movement under the sheets and saw whoever it was had pulled the sheets up over his head. Stoke walked over and ripped the sheets off. It was just an old guy wearing some ugly-ass pajamas.

“Get out the damn bed, my brother, you free at last,” Stoke said, prodding him gently with the muzzle of his HK.

“Fuck you,” the old guy said.

“Fuck me? I come and rescue your damn ass and all you got to say—hey, hold the phone, I know you! You goddamn Fidel, ain’t you? Hell, you Fidel Castro! Man, you world famous!”

“Go away,” the old guy said. “Leave me to die in peace.”

“Peace? You call this peace? Hand grenades going off, submachine guns firing all over the place? You deaf or something? Now get out that bed.”

“Where is my son?” Fidel said. “They promised he would not be harmed. No one will tell me.”

“Where’s his son, asshole?” Stoke asked the guard.

“They took him last night. To Havana.”

“Alive?” Castro asked, staring at the guard.

“Sн, Comandante. He was alive when they put him in the truck. I swear it.”

“Hey, Comandante, get out the bed and put these damn pants on,” Stoke said, throwing him a pair he’d found draped over a chair.

“Why?” Castro said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why? Look at you! A badass revolutionary like you wearin’ them funky pajamas? Why is ’cause I’m gonna save your sorry ass whether you like it or not, that’s why. I leave you lyin’ here like this, they just gonna shoot you.”

“So?”

“So, you a Communist, ain’t you? Man, you on the endangered species list! You right at the top! I ain’t goin’ to let a bunch of dipshit drug dealers murder an old coot like you in cold blood. I’m a New York City policeman! Now, get your damn pants on and let’s get out of here!”

Castro climbed out of bed muttering and started pulling the trousers on.

“You, too, dickhead,” he said to the guard.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. You see anybody else in here?”

“No, seсor, but—”

“Shut the fuck up, okay? Now both of you listen up. Pablo, you go out first, then the living legend, and then me. Pablo, you stay tight, right in front of the comandante, got that? Shield his ass. You don’t do it, you try and run, and I’m going to blow your ass off anyway. Okay, Pablo? Comandante? Let’s go!”

There were three Cuban soldiers just emerging from the haze at the top of the stairwell when they came out of the door. Pablo froze and then Stokely shoved Castro to the floor, told Pablo to hit the deck, and unleashed his MP-5. Before the tangos could register what was happening they had crumpled to the floor, shredded with lead.

“HydraShok loads,” he informed Fidel and Pablo. “Some serious shit, ain’t they? Come on, Comandante, get your ass up. We gettin’ out of here!”

The firing at the other end of the building had diminished considerably. Stoke was just stepping over the dead soldiers heaped at the top of the steps when he heard Fitz on the radio tell Boomer they had the hostage and were clearing out of the building.

Stoke didn’t see anything moving out front when the three of them stepped outside into the courtyard. Clouds still blanketed the stars, but he could sense it was getting lighter out. The closest vehicle was a beat-up old Jeep he’d checked on the way in. Keys were in the ignition.

“Get in that damn Jeep and drive, Pablo,” he told the guard, shoving him toward the driver’s side. He held Castro’s arm, escorted him around to the Jeep’s other side, and helped him get in. Then he handed the old man his 9mm pistol. Castro looked down at the weapon in his lap with an expression of mild surprise.

“Now listen up, Comandante, I don’t know what’s going on down here in this whacked-out fucking country of yours. But I do know there’s an eight-foot hole in that fence right over there. About five hundred yards past it is a jungle road looks like it might lead somewhere.”

“Sн! I know it,” the guard said. “It leads to my village of Santa Marta!”

“Good,” Stoke said. “Excellent. Pablo, this old fella is looking shaky. You take him on home to your momma and get some hot chicken soup in him, okay? Perk his ass right up. You got that? Now you two get your sorry damn asses out of here before the real shooting war starts!”

He looked at Castro and leaned in close to him.

“I’m goin’ to tell you something now, Comandante, all right? Just between you and me, know what I’m sayin’, my brother? The truth?”

Castro nodded, just sitting there, looking up at him like what the fuck.

“This Communism thing?” Stoke said, looking at him, dead serious.

“Yes?”

“It sucks. Try something else.”

The Jeep roared off, and Stoke climbed up into the big half-ton truck parked a few yards away. No keys. He’d have to hot-wire it. Just as he bent to do it, the windshield of the truck exploded, showering him with a thousand fragments. He lifted his head and saw more green fatigues than he could count coming at a run down the road from the barracks area.