Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

Tarkington had enough military power at his command to wipe this corner of Africa off the map. If anything happened to the hostages, he intended to use it. He had told all his superiors that, and none of them said no.

Yet, if anything happened to the hostages, he and Grafton had lost.

Tarkington didn’t intend to lose.

Just now he watched a small green spot moving on an infrared image captured by a drone over Eyl. There were plenty of other green spots, some of them moving, but the computer techs said this one was Tommy Carmellini crawling for Ragnar’s lair. Jake Grafton was in there.

Toad tried to see the telltale traces of SEALs crawling up onto the beach. Nothing. Since they were wearing wet suits, which were indeed wet, their forms should be colder than the sand still warm from the sun. As the water dried, the cold signature would disappear. As the heat of the men’s bodies slowly exceeded the temperature of the cooling sand, they would again become visible in infrared. But not yet.

Tarkington hoped the Shabab didn’t have night-vision or infrared technology. He and Grafton had made this plan assuming that they didn’t. Watching Carmellini creep along, Toad crossed his fingers.

“Thirty minutes, Admiral. Battlestar”-the United States -“is launching aircraft.”

“Thank you.” Toad arose from his chair and went to the head. There wouldn’t be time later.

* * *

Yousef el-Din had spent most of the afternoon and evening in conversation via shortwave with his colleagues in southern Somalia, who of course knew his plans quite well. They informed him about media coverage of the Sultan hostage incident, and the fact that the two hundred million in cash was on its way to the task force via air. That fact had been splashed across every newscast in the world.

Ragnar’s shortwave radio was in shambles, so the Shabab had transported theirs from West Eyl to the lair and lugged it to the penthouse, where the reception would be better due to the height, and the fact that, unlike East Eyl, the beach town didn’t sit in a river valley surrounded by rimrock hills.

When he wasn’t chattering to his colleagues, Yousef el-Din prayed on his regular schedule. He normally prayed five times a day, unless he was in combat.

Yousef was deeply devout. He knew that he and his men would need Allah’s help after they had the money and killed the hostages. Still, the Shabab’s friends all over the Muslim world would grow in prestige and power, and Allah be praised, the final battle between good and evil would be one giant step closer.

Yousef did not think he would survive the wrath of the allied task force. To go to Paradise as a martyr, with the blood of infidels on his hands, after having fought Allah’s war against the nonbelievers … well, it was heady stuff for Yousef el-Din. He could feel the Prophet’s spiritual presence, giving him strength for the days ahead.

When he finished praying, he thought again about the money. Two truckloads of currency. He would have his men hide it in the desert, at a place known to his Shabab colleagues in the south. If he didn’t live, they would find it and use it to fund jihad.

Allah akbar.

But the Americans! After he blew up the fortress, or machine-gunned the hostages, they would be outraged, naturally, and would lash out, like snakes. One of the places they would storm was this building-and the basement was full of explosives! He had inspected the weapons treasure trove earlier this afternoon.

The weapons were tempting, enough to outfit hundreds of men, but with two hundred million dollars the Shabab could buy a shipload. Perhaps even several nuclear warheads. The North Koreans were a reliable source, and of course there were the Bulgarians. And these days the Iranians were anxious to tangibly assist anyone who was the enemy of their enemies, of whom they had many.

After his evening prayer, Yousef gathered his lieutenants and issued orders. They must be ready for tomorrow.

I managed to reach the back corner of the building without being seen. I had crawled the whole way, taking advantage of every shadow, every turned head, and eventually I reached the corner of the building on the dark side, away from the fire in the plaza.

I had my headset on, so I could hear reports from everybody involved in this operation, if they were on my freq. I thought the SEALs were, but they hadn’t said much. A few minutes earlier I had heard Willis Coffey say that he was in position. I triggered the mike. “Tommy going in.” I got a Roger.

I took one more quick look around, then began free-climbing the building.

I had studied that building since I arrived in Eyl, and knew precisely how it could be done. During my college years I was a rock climber, which was the perfect sport for a guy who aspired to burglary. I had an interesting youth, one that I tried to avoid discussing in polite company. Of course Jake Grafton knew-he knew everything. The thought occurred to me a few years ago that he had spent so much of his life around straight arrows that he was amused by bent ones.

I gained the second floor in just a few seconds, hauling myself up by my fingertips. Try it sometime. If you think chin-ups are difficult, this will be an interesting challenge for you.

I reached a window, devoid of glass. Maybe it had been shot out in the excitement last night … or some kid threw a rock through it just to piss off Ragnar.

I looked in, saw no one and crawled through in less time than it takes to tell.

The lightbulb hanging from the ceiling was lit. I reached up and unscrewed it. It’s something in my character-I feel safer in the dark. I pulled the Ruger from my backpack and checked the safety.

The hallway was empty. I checked each room, then listened in the stairwell. Heard people coming down. Ducked into an empty room and waited. I felt naked with all these lightbulbs burning. Should have completely disabled the generator, not just turned it off. Maybe I should ask for a do-over.

Three of them, by the sound. They went on down.

I went back to the stairwell, listening carefully. Went on up to the next floor and eased my head around the corner for a look. There sat a guy on the floor outside one of the rooms. No one in the other direction.

The man was about twelve feet from me, more or less. Chewing khat and looking bored. His rifle rested on his lap. If I didn’t drop him with the Ruger and he shouted, this gig could go south fast.

For a few seconds I hoped he would get up, walk away, or toward me. Anything but just sit there. Yet even as I thought about it I heard someone come into the lobby down below. Two of them, and their voices came up the stairwell, which was a sounding pipe. I heard footsteps on the stairs.

Out of time. I stepped out, squared around and, as the startled guard turned toward me, shot him in the face. He swayed, his mouth opened to scream. I ran the three steps to him, put the muzzle of the silencer against his forehead and pulled the trigger.

Tried the door. Unlocked. Pushed it open, grabbed the AK and dragged the guard inside.

Jake Grafton was sitting against the far wall, watching me. He started to say something, and I put my fingers to my lips, silencing him.

The guard was still alive. At least his eyes were fluttering, though unfocused. I don’t know much about brain injuries, don’t want one myself, and if I ever get one, hope someone will quickly send me along to the next adventure. That’s what I did for the guard. Took his head in one hand, twisted sharply and broke his neck. His body went limp.

Voices in the hallway were coming this way. I left the guard where he lay, tossed Grafton the AK and stepped back out of sight.