Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

Kyle held up his palm, then put a finger to his lips. “Keep the noise down, sir. I don’t think anybody is around to hear at this time of night, but we can’t take the chance. Anyway, it’s not quite time to leave yet.” Kyle handed Middleton a full bottle of water. “Drink this. All of it, to hydrate.” He unscrewed another bottle and drank it himself.

Middleton felt slightly better after the long drink, but when he tried to stand up, he was wobbly. Swanson steadied him until he regained his equilibrium.

“I’ll tape your ribs, then get you into these fresh robes.” He pulled out the clothes he had stolen and tossed them on the bed.

Every movement seemed to aggravate Middleton’s broken rib, as if he were being prodded in his guts by a big needle. “Are you the only one here?” he asked.

“We sent in a Force Recon team to get you, but the helos somehow tangled up and crashed not far from here. I was thrown out through a hatch. Hold your arms out so I can wind this around you.” Swanson spun the duct tape tightly around Middleton’s stomach and lower chest. “I figured out later that we were flying into an ambush.”

“Jesus, that smarts!” Middleton hissed through clenched teeth, wincing in pain as the tape cinched tight. “Yeah, you were. I heard them talking about it.”

“Sorry, sir. I’m not a medic and we just need to get you mobile. Broken rib hurts like hell, but it won’t kill you.” Kyle tore off an end of the tape, then ripped off a smaller piece and untied the strip of cloth binding the broken finger. Tied it more securely with tape. “How’d that happen?”

“I had a disagreement with one of the mercs. He was beating up on a woman in the next room.”

“Yeah. I saw her before I came in here. Young teenager. He really worked her over before she died.” Swanson shoved the remainder of the roll back into his pack. “You need help getting the clothes on?”

The general cursed Logan. “I figured he had killed her. Poor kid.”

Swanson did not want Middleton to dwell on anything but their escape, so he held out the baggy pants and the general worked his legs in and tied them off with a loose belt, and they pulled the long shirt down over his torso. He found a pair of sandals and the general put them on. “Okay. Let’s get you out to the front room.”

Middleton took a shuffling step, and the next one came easier. By the time he reached a chair beside the table in the outer room, he was feeling stronger, and he sat down while Swanson gathered his gear. Jimbo Collins lay dead nearby, blood caking his face and chest. “The other guy, name of Vic Logan, will be back soon,” he said.

“We’ll be gone by then, sir. He headed out to the crash site with a bunch of Syrian Army types. We have a small cushion of time, but not much. Do you think you can fire a weapon?”

“Sure. Give me some more water, will you?”

Swanson handed him another bottle, then put some pita bread, orange juice, figs, and a Mars bar on the table. “Eat up, sir. We’ve got to wait a few more minutes before we take off.”

The general did not question why. He gulped down the food and liquid, feeling strength surging back to him. “What did you do, Gunny, stop by Wal-Mart on the way over?”

Kyle had spotted the AK-47 on pegs above the front door when he searched the house, and took it down. Loaded and clean. He laid it on the table. “Something like that. Now here’s what is going to happen. I planted bricks of C-4 around a house near here where a bunch of raghead fighters are sleeping. It’s timed to go off in about sixty seconds. Right after that, you and I are through the front door and into a white Toyota pickup waiting outside, you in the shotgun seat with the AK. The moving will hurt, but you have to force yourself to get in quickly.”

He rummaged through the room as he spoke, and ripped a good map off the wall and rolled it up. With the butt of his pistol, he smashed the satellite telephone, but when he started to wreck the two laptop computers, the general stopped him. “Wait! Take them along,” said Middleton. “They are probably loaded with intel and e-mails about this whole operation.”

Swanson stuffed the map and the laptops into his bulging pack and put it on. “Okay, here we go. Stand with your back against the wall beside the door. Keep the AK ready. I’ll do the same thing over here.”

Middleton hesitated, but got to his feet. “Watch your tone, Gunnery Sergeant.”

“General Middleton, let’s get this straight right now. Until we get out of this shithole, I’m in charge. You’re my passenger and you do what you are told. Now get your fucking back up against that wall!”

Middleton moved, but with a frown. It felt good to have a weapon in his hands and no longer be helpless. He thought about the poor dead girl in the other room, and about the Marine and Saudi guards and his aide who were murdered in the ambush. He wished Vic Logan would walk through the door right now.

The explosion came with unexpected violence, and the concussion rocked the area. Swanson and Middleton felt the wall shake with the pounding stress, and the falling debris sounded like a hailstorm as the blast wave rolled over the village.

“NOW!” Swanson barked. “Go, go, go!” He led the way out with his M-16 ready and ran to the driver’s side of the truck, throwing his big pack and Excalibur into the bed as he jumped inside. Middleton limped behind him and clawed into the passenger seat. The night had changed to bright, dancing light and shadows as fire mushroomed upward from the destroyed structure, where secondary explosions from ammunition stored inside the house joined the carnage.

Kyle propped the M-16 beside him and turned the key, and the little truck’s engine roared to life as people rushed out of their homes and into the streets. “You in?” he called over to the general as he pulled his night-vision goggles into place.

“Yeah. Let’s go,” replied Middleton. “Floor it.”

The figure of a man with a weapon appeared in the road ahead and Swanson knocked him down, gaining speed, heading out of town. Middleton fired several bursts at other figures running toward the truck.

Swanson jammed the transmission into second gear, the four big tires dug hard, and the truck lurched ahead as if it was a racehorse. Kyle blessed the care the Frenchman had lavished on the vehicle, keeping it unremarkable on the outside but with powerful mechanical guts. He could feel the strength of the machine through the steering wheel. This was no standard Toyota engine. As he shifted into third as they swung past the big Zeus, they spotted a man climbing into the gunner’s seat. With the accelerator on the floor, he sped away into the world painted green by the NVGs.

“Somebody’s on the Zeus!” shouted Middleton, raking the area with an automatic burst.

“He’s not a problem. I rigged it to blow up when the trigger is pulled.”

Middleton pulled his AK-47 back inside and took some deep breaths. He was free! Goddam! “ So what’s the escape plan, Gunny?” he asked.

“We just did it, General,” said Swanson. “From here, I got no fucking idea.”

MAJOR YOUSIF AL-SHOUMwalked slowly around the remains of the crashed helicopters saying nothing, his eyes taking inventory. He was a small, quiet man whose frail physique belied his importance. It was his brain, not his physical strength, that had won him attention and respect within the Security Directorate in Damascus. He had graduated at the top of his class from the Military Academy at Homs, had advanced training in the old Soviet Union, and won both the Medal of Military Honor and the Order of Umayyads during his extended work in Lebanon and Iraq. Later, as military attaché at Syrian embassies in London and at the United Nations, he developed flawless English. Al-Shoum was a loner with a secret passion for American mystery stories. He conducted his investigations like a slow, plodding, methodical Los Angeles private detective.