Dale Brown - Puppet Master

“The trucks are almost past the road,” she told Bozzone.

“I’m ready,” he said. He raised his rifle, then twisted in the seat so he was facing the intersection where they would pass.

Tolevi sat on the closed toilet, trying to work out where the door to the basement would be.

Front room. Hallway to the left.

Go back there and check it out.

He got up and reached for the door, then realized he’d better flush the toilet, or the two bozos in the kitchen would be suspicious.

As the toilet flushed, he heard the crack of a gunshot outside.

God damn it, White. No way.

There was another bullet, louder, then rounds of automatic fire.

Son of a bitch! White, you asshole!

Two of the paras had set up near the front of the house with scopes, using their MK 17s as light sniper rifles. The shots took down the two men at the road before the three Russian Gazes reached the property. But the gunfire brought one of the men who’d been back by the garage area forward before the CIA paras at the back could get a shot on him, and he began peppering the area in front of the house with covering fire — which would have been a bad thing for his comrades had they still been alive.

More importantly for the CIA team, he radioed the men in the trucks.

The Americans were outnumbered, but they weren’t outgunned. Porter aimed a Russian rocket-grenade launcher at the lead truck as it stopped a hundred yards from the property. The grenade hit before more than half of the men could get out; those who weren’t hit by shrapnel were burned alive.

Tolevi yanked the door to the bathroom open, expecting to see the others in the kitchen. But they’d already run to the front room.

He ran around the other way, hoping to get to the basement before they cut it off. Bullets shot through the front of the house, tearing up the wood and plaster. He dove to the ground, then scrambled into the room.

The two commandos were at the windows, aiming Minimis — Belgian squad-level machine guns similar to American M249s — out the window.

“What the hell?” Tolevi shouted as the man on the right turned toward him. “Who’s attacking?”

“Just stay down, asshole.”

“Where the hell is my gun? I’m not going down without a fight!”

“Stay down or I shoot you.”

A fusillade of bullets came through the front. Tolevi ducked.

Where the hell did they put my pistol?

He went through to the left. There were two doors. He opened the first. It was a stairway up.

Other one.

As he reached for the door, the front of the house exploded. He fell to the ground, dazed and choking with the smoke.

“Who fired at the house?” demanded White. “What the hell — was it the robot?”

“The robots are still fifty yards away,” said Chelsea.

“A grenade from the Russians,” said Porter. “They must have misfired.”

“Get these—”

White’s voice was drowned out by gunfire. Chelsea lowered her head, as if the bullets were here, not a few hundred yards away. Rattled, she tried to focus on the Nighthawks. That was her job, to spot where the enemy was and tell the others. She flipped on the infrared to make it easier to spot the bodies in the field and woods.

It was starting to get dark.

Eight Russians left fighting.

Another truck coming to the intersection — their intersection.

Turning.

“Beefy, we have another truck.”

“Stay here and don’t move!” Bozzone told her, bolting out of the vehicle with his rifle.

Tolevi got to his knees. The commando nearest him had been thrown back by the explosion. His Minimi lay on the floor a few feet away.

Just by coincidence, it was the thug who had taken the first cuts at him.

Tolevi reached the machine gun just as the commando rose. The Russian held his hand out for it.

“Here,” said Tolevi, leveling it toward the man’s stomach and pressing the trigger. “See you in hell, scumbag.”

Chelsea watched Groucho 1 rumble up to the front of the house. The building was blackened and pockmarked; a grenade had gone off in the front yard moments before.

The idea had been for Groucho 1 to explode as a diversion, allowing Tolevi to go out the back; alternatively, it would be used to clear the way for a frontal assault. Unsure how it could be used now, she left it parked in ready mode, waiting for instructions.

She looked at Groucho 2, which was sixty seconds from its assigned position at the back barn. Then she looked back at the Nighthawk screen, trying to locate the soldiers and radio their positions to the rest of the team.

Gunfire rattled outside, very close to the van. She ducked down, folding herself at the waist over the control units.

It’s not supposed to go like this.

A sharp rap on the front driver’s side door caught her by surprise, and she twisted around, frozen.

A face appeared at the window.

A child’s face. One of the kids who’d been playing soccer.

Crying.

Oh my God, thought Chelsea, scrambling to unlock the door.

Tolevi had never fired a Minimi before and wasn’t used to its heft or kick, both of which affected his aim. But he made up for that with the sheer amount of bullets, cutting the commando nearly in half before letting off of the trigger.

The other man turned, a puzzled look on his face.

Tolevi fired. Two bullets flew from the gun, then nothing. He’d emptied the magazine.

Both bullets missed. The other man, still not entirely comprehending, started to raise his own weapon in defense.

“Damn it!” yelled Tolevi, launching himself toward him.

He swung the machine gun up, using it like a spear as he struck the Russian. They tumbled back against the wall as the Russian’s gun began spitting bullets. Tolevi’s hand felt as if it was burning — he’d inadvertently touched the barrel — but by this point he was beyond pain, stoked with adrenaline and fear. He wedged the Minimi against the man’s throat, violently mashing it downward as the other man began to cough. The Russian let go of his gun and tried to push Tolevi away. But Tolevi had too much leverage now, and all of his viciousness, all of his anger and desperation, went into his hands and arms. He pushed against the man’s throat with all his might, awkwardly but effectively, until the man stopped struggling.

One more slam to make sure, then he sprung up, dropping the empty machine gun on the floor. He started to back out, then, realizing a gun would be more than a little useful, he reached down and grabbed the other Minimi.

He looked up.

A man was standing on the other side of the room.

The butcher.

“You really are his brother, aren’t you?” said Tolevi, surprised at how similar the men looked in real life. “The pictures don’t do you justice.”

The butcher shook his head. Tolevi realized he’d been speaking in English.

“I’m here to get you out,” he said in Ukrainian. “Your brother sent me.”

“My brother?”

“He’s outside.” A lie, but it was the easiest way to tell Olak that he was on his side. “I’m an American. With the CIA. Working for them. We’re here to rescue you.”

“What?”

“Come on. We’ll get out the back.”

There were two kids there, both boys eight or nine years old. Chelsea pulled them inside, hit the lock button, then pushed them down beneath the dashboard in front of the seats.

“Stay down!” she told them in English.