Марк Грини - One Minute Out

I can’t hear A.J.’s sniper rifle, but I trust he’s dropping some of the sons of bitches who are shooting at the aircraft I’m clinging to.

I’m still scanning for something to kill; I don’t have any targets from my vantage point because Shep and his weapon are blocking my view in front of me. But I keep searching, hoping to see the telltale sparkle of a muzzle flash somewhere out there in the dark.

Carl speaks up again. “Too much fire to land on the back lawn! I’m going over the target; we’ll come back around and try it from the front.”

I finally see a muzzle flash near a small pond behind the house now, and I fire a few rounds out of my AK towards the source. Then I say, “Negative! Negative! Put Kareem and Rodney down on the roof.”

“What about you?” Shep asks.

“Carl, can you throw me through a window on the third floor?”

There is a pause; through it I hear Kareem firing on the other side of the helo.

Carl replies, “You want me to do what ?”

I sling the AK to the side, muzzle down, and I throw out my rappelling line. “Fly exactly thirty feet above any top-floor window on this side of the property. I’ll lower down the rope, and you fly me right through the glass. I’ll link up with the other two as able.”

Carl answers me back quickly as he slows the helicopter. “How do I know exactly thirty feet?”

“You’ll get me close enough.”

I hear him sigh through the radio. “I can do that, but you’ve only got fifteen seconds to get in position!”

“Copy!” I shout, and then I unfasten my carabiner with my left hand, grab the rappelling line with both arms and legs, and begin sliding down, almost uncontrollably fast.

More gunfire, both incoming and outgoing, hammers the air around me, and then I hear a new sound—a pounding, jarring series of thuds.

Carl says, “Taking hits!” And then, “We’re continuing!”

Shep’s rifle booms and booms above me.

I draw the Glock from its drop leg holster, sight it on the window not thirty feet in front of me now, and, while still trying to slide down the rope, I fire two rounds into the upper portion of the glass. It’s at a small upwards angle so I’m not worried about shooting a hostage, and breaking the glass is worth any small risk, because solid windows aren’t much fun to dive through.

I know this from experience, of course.

Two seconds later I let go of the rope, curl myself into a ball, and impact the damaged window at twenty-five knots, because Carl has slowed to land on the roof. I fly in surrounded by shattered glass and shredded curtains, my hearing protection and goggles fly off, and I tumble through the air. I tuck in tight, expecting a jarring crash onto the floor, but instead I bounce on something soft, roll end over end, my rifle’s polymer buttstock knocking me in my mouth as I tumble.

And then, somehow, I end up on my boots in an uncontrolled run.

Above me the helicopter hovers over the roof, and gunfire continues all around.

I stumble across a room and finally do bounce against a wall, slamming my shoulder hard and dropping the Glock. I miraculously keep my feet, then turn back around and heft my rifle on its sling.

Yeah, I do all my own stunts.

I see what happened immediately. I came through the window, hit a king-sized bed in a large bedroom, and then momentum shot me back up and all the way to the far wall. As I look around I see the bed is unmade and there is a smell of candles in the air, and once I realize there are no threats present, I pick up the pistol and slip it back in its holster.

Stealth mode, I tell myself, has been disengaged, since I alerted anyone in the area by crashing through the glass.

Moving to the door I’m slightly dazed, and I feel blood on my lips, but it’s nothing I’m not used to. I’m operational as long as I have breath in my lungs and brain function, and I’m trained not to slow down for injuries that aren’t disabling.

Before I get to the door I hear running just outside. I step behind the door as it flies open, and I see a man with dark curly hair enter with a black AR-15 up at his shoulder.

He scans the room, and I wait patiently behind him, wondering if he has any buddies following, but when I don’t hear other footsteps after a moment and the man begins to turn back around, I fire once into the side of his head.

Blood ejects out his temple and he drops ten feet away from me. I fire once more into him as I spin out of the room, into the hallway.

Rodney’s voice is on the radio now, just audible through the gunfire raging outside. “All hostiles on the roof are down; we’re entering via the stairwell, west side of property.”

A.J. speaks up next. “I’ve got inbound forces, two vics, leaving the bunkhouse. Unknown number of hostiles; they loaded up the trucks out of my field of vision. They’ll be on your poz in under a minute unless I can slow them down. Will advise.”

Shep transmits, the thumping rotor pounding through my earpiece. “Harry? You inside, or did you hit the wall?”

I respond softly, not sure what threats lie ahead. “I’m in. Keep up that air cover as long as you can.”

“Roger that,” Shep says.

I call to A.J. “Overwatch, I need you to buy us some time with the hostile QRF. It’s gonna take a while for three dudes to clear this place and organize the hostages.”

A.J. replies coolly, “I’ll see what I can do. Targeting the engine blocks on the trucks.”

I push the worry about the enemy outside of the house from my mind, and I focus on the enemy inside with me now. Moving up the well-lit passage with my rifle optic up to my eyes, I see door after door in front of me, like a hotel hallway. The door just ahead on my right opens and, without a moment’s hesitation, I lunge at it, impact the person on the other side, and push them up to a wall.

It’s a young woman with blue eyes filled with terror. I hold my gloved left hand over her mouth while she deals with the shock of everything that’s happening around her.

She’s wearing a T-shirt and panties, her sandy brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and it appears as if she’s just taken a shower.

It’s not Roxana, and I have no idea if I saw this woman in Mostar or not.

Leaning close to her, I say, “English?”

When she nods, I ask, “How many guards?”

I take away the hand, and she speaks with a pronounced accent, which I take to be Czech.

“I, I don’t know. Many. And new men here. White men. Maybe seven, eight? They have guns. They dressed like johns.”

“How many johns are here now?”

Again, she says, “I don’t know. Not many. Maybe five?”

I transmit quickly to Kareem and Rodney. “Be advised. Enemy personnel mixed in with the johns. Treat every male you see as potentially hostile.”

Rodney responds, “This ain’t our first rodeo, Harry.”

These are the guys who gunned down over a dozen traffickers in Manila; they don’t need me telling them to keep their weapons at the ready.

I stop transmitting and try to extract more target intelligence from the woman in front of me. “How many females here now?”

“Nine,” she says, and then she shakes her head. “No. Two came yesterday. Eleven. Eleven now.”

“Where are they?”

“Most are on second or third floor, but some of the johns take the girls to the grotto on the ground floor. It’s on the other side. There might be girls there.”

“I need you to get dressed, then climb into the bathtub and wait for someone to come collect you.”

“Where are we going?” Her voice cracks with fear.

“ You are going home.”

She looks at me with bewilderment. “You are . . . you are the good guys?”