Marc Cameron - National Security

“How many men you got?” Quinn whispered at the dark shape, his brain already hard at work on a plan. It was a relief to have someone around besides Fargo.

“Two, but we’re Marines so that’s a dozen mortal men,” the voice said. “We augered in hard on that Huey three blocks north. Damned hajji got us with an RPG. Crew chief and three of my men had to stay behind to move the pilots. Both of ’em got banged up on impact. Rat bastard Iraqis’ll be swarming the place like maggots in no time flat. Me and Diaz broke away to come see about this missin’ Marine y’all been squawkin’ about on the radio.”

Two forms scuttled up next to Quinn in the darkness under the lone palm tree.

“Gunnery Sergeant Jacques Thibodaux and Lance Corporal Diaz.” Even in the inky black, Quinn could tell the gunny was built like a professional body builder. Biceps the size of grapefruit bulged from the rolled sleeves of his uniform blouse. Massive shoulders heaved with each deliberate breath. Corporal Diaz, who lay somewhere on the far side, was eclipsed by his giant sergeant.

Thibodaux gave Quinn a once-over, raising an eye at his Iraqi clothing. “You a civilian?”

“Air Force, OSI.”

“Figured as much,” Thibodaux grunted, his voice gumbo-thick with a Louisiana drawl. A square-jawed Marine Corps poster child, he put up with pilots from other service branches because they offered close air support when he needed it. Everyone else was a wing waxer… or worse. “So, Chair Force, where exactly is our Marine?”

Quinn rolled half on his side to look through his night vision scope at the shimmering green hulk of the Cajun. Thibodaux could have easily been an NFL lineman if he hadn’t listened to the recruiter back in Baton Rouge.

“My information puts your Marine and at least one other American up there.” Quinn nodded toward the dilapidated tire shop. “They’re supposed to be executed tonight.”

The muscles in the big Marine’s jaw tensed at the news. “And your shitbird colonel wants you to wait ’til he gets here?”

“Those are his orders,” Quinn said.

The men hugged the sand as an Opal sedan, covered in a layer of dust thick enough to obscure the color, sputtered up the road. Feeble headlights barely dented the night. The car ground to a creaking stop across the street, blocking the front door of the building from view.

A heavily bearded Iraqi got out and looked up and down the empty street, craning his neck as if stretching would help him see in the dark. When he was apparently satisfied that he hadn’t been followed, he opened the trunk to retrieve a video camera and a large wad of clear plastic he stuffed under his arm. He gave the street another furtive look in either direction, then pulled an AK-47 from the back seat and disappeared into the building.

The giant Cajun took a knee. His voice was grim. “That dude just took in a camera and tarps. We all know what these rags like to get on video…” The M4 looked like a toy in his shovel-sized hands.

Quinn slipped out of his dishdasha and tossed it under the palm tree. “We can’t wait,” he said. “That a problem for you?”

He could see from the look on the Cajun’s face that it wasn’t.

“You kiddin’ me, Chair Force?” Thibodaux snorted. “I ain’t responsible to orders some sand crab didn’t even give me.” He nudged Quinn in the side with his elbow. “Fact is, I was never gonna wait anyhow.”

“Outstanding.” Quinn pushed into a standing crouch. He tapped the CRKT Hissatsu fighting knife tucked in his belt before taking up the M4 from where it hung on the single-point sling around his neck. He paused to look at both Marines through the sullen darkness. To trust him, they had to hear this from his mouth: “No time for diplomacy here. We shoot anyone who isn’t a hostage.”

“Roger that,” the Marines said in unison, stone-faced. That had always been their plan.

Quinn sensed the same torrent of white heat he felt before any life-threatening action-a fire, low in his belly.

Thibodaux turned and gave Quinn’s shoulder a nudge as they began to move. “Time we got to know each other a bit, Chair Force. Let’s me and you play a little game. Apart from the spending time in the company of a good woman-what are the top two things you wish you were doin’ right now?”

Quinn broke into a fast trot, speaking as he went. His first wish was a no-brainer. “First, I’d be riding my BMW motorcycle up the Alaska Highway to see my little girl.”

“Good choice,” the Marine said, jogging beside him. “And if you couldn’t do that?”

Quinn focused on the darkened building ahead, full of people who wanted nothing more than to see him and every other American dead.

“I’m doing it.”

Running alongside the two Marines dressed in their full battle rattle, Jericho Quinn felt naked in his mesh gear vest, OSI-issue dark blue polo shirt, and 5.11 Tactical khakis. The desert night was cold without his dishdasha, but the fact that he had no body armor sent the chill all the way to his bones.

“Take a look around back,” Thibodaux whispered to Corporal Diaz as they drew even with the first row of oil drums at the left end of the building.

The plucky little Puerto Rican was dwarfed by the towering gunnery sergeant. He trotted off without a word with his bulky M240G machine gun. The Golf was heavier than an M4 but chambered for a 7.62 NATO round that packed a bigger wallop in return for the extra weight. He kept the weapon tucked in a high-ready position as he disappeared into the night.

Quinn and Thibodaux crouched alongside a grimy showroom window, adjacent to the main entry. When the shop had been up and running, the window would have revealed a small lobby full of tires and a few chairs for men to sit and drink strong Iraqi coffee while they waited. Now there was only a vacant concrete floor, some scattered rat droppings, and a darkened set of stairs in the far right corner leading to the second floor.

Diaz appeared from the opposite corner of the building in a tiptoeing sprint, having made a complete circle in just over a minute.

“There’s a man-door up some rickety-ass stairs in back,” he whispered, not even panting. “But it’s sandbagged. Two sets of windows-one at the west end.” He tipped his head toward the garage bay. “And another around back, ten feet west of the upstairs door. Windows are sandbagged too, but there’s enough of a crack that I could make out two hajjis just inside the corner window.”

“How about hostages?” Thibodaux asked.

“No sign of ’em, Gunny,” Diaz said. “But I only had a half inch to peek through. The bastards already got on black masks. They’re gettin’ ready to make a video…”

Quinn bit his bottom lip, understanding the urgency. “Any way to get a flash bang through one of the upstairs windows?”

“No way, sir.” Diaz shook his head. “They got sandbags stacked up inside. I could blow the bags, but by the time we dug our way in, our guys’d be DRT.”

DRT was dead right there-the worst kind of dead, absolutely, unrevivably dead.

The Puerto Rican jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The only way in is up those inside stairs.”

Quinn turned toward Thibodaux, caught up in the moment of the chase.

“Marines are big on charging the hill…”

“Damn straight,” Thibodaux said. “If I told you what I really want to do, it’d melt your little Chair Force ears.”

“Roger that, Gunny.” Diaz nodded in agreement.

Quinn shot another glance through the film of dust and grime on the showroom window. Suddenly struck with a plan, he took a step backward, looking up at the second story, then through the window again at the stairs.