Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“Okay,” Gray said. “My word.”

“Your word as a Marine,” Hacksaw said.

“My word as a Marine,” the CIA agent said.

“About a year ago, Jason Kendrick approached me in Washington. I had just landed home from my first rotation with Malone-Leyva, started my supervisory training at our DC headquarters, getting to know Cesare Alosi real well. That’s when I brought in Kermit and Habu as my team, got Victor Malone to hire them, and guaranteed he’d never regret it.

“Kendrick found me and said he was looking for someone with my credentials to work for the FBI as an inside man at Malone-Leyva. I didn’t like the idea because I didn’t know better. So, he took me to his office, showed me all the underworld connections with Victor Malone. Granted, I kind of liked Malone, still do, and he definitely liked me. So it was a tough business, me seeing that man’s dark side. How people have disappeared who’ve crossed him. They don’t just wind up dead, but literally evaporated. Something to do with hydrochloric acid reducing the body to liquid protein and flushed down the river.

“I told Kendrick that I wanted my boys, Alexander and Webster, brought aboard, and I would do it. We’ve been over here, this whole tour, reporting back to Kendrick.”

Gray smiled. “Jason and I are old friends. I knew he had some people at Malone-Leyva undercover, but I didn’t know who. The way Alosi hates you makes sense.”

“Right. We don’t do his sleazy crap, and that pisses him the fuck off,” Hacksaw said. “Ray-Dean Blevins, on the other hand. Totally compromised.”

“Your cover may be blown,” Gray said, considering what he had just learned. “Alosi wouldn’t take a big chance, violating national security, setting you up, just because he doesn’t like you.”

“My feelings exactly,” Hacksaw said. “You can verify everything with my boys.”

“They’re right here by my side, nodding their heads,” Gray said. “What about Liberty Cruz?”

“She doesn’t know shit,” Gillespie said. “Kendrick may have told her that he had some people here undercover, but I am certain he would not have told even her about us. It’s a great risk even your knowing.”

“Maybe we need to take a different approach,” Gray said. “An open investigation for an NSA violation is likely the thing Alosi wants to see happen. It literally takes you and your team out of play.”

“Roger that,” Hacksaw said.

“I’ll go to Baghdad and discuss this with Liberty,” Gray said. “Gives me an excuse to take her to dinner again.”

“She’s Jack Valentine’s girl, I guess you know,” Gillespie said, looking out for his old friend.

“Painfully aware of it,” Gray said.

“You have any ideas about this classified crap hidden under my silverware tray?” Hacksaw asked.

“A couple,” Gray said. “I know what I’d like to do.”

“What’s that?” Walter asked, smiling. “Maybe you’re thinking what I’m thinking? Some CIA-type dirty shit? Like, put all this back on Alosi?”

“Be nice,” Gray said. “At least bust him up some.”

“I got an idea,” Hacksaw said.

“Something to do with his stooge, Blevins?” Gray said.

Hacksaw grinned. “His room’s just a few doors down. Only question is how to put the spotlight on Cooder so he gets his room tossed by Liberty and the crew.”

“I’ll work on it,” Gray said. “Meanwhile, put the smoking gun someplace Blevins won’t find it but the FBI team will. Call me when it’s done.”

First thing Jack Valentine saw was the rooster tail of dust climbing in the air. Then he saw the blue Toyota pickup truck racing straight at him. As the vehicle got closer, Valentine could see the Haji behind the machine gun, lying over the top of the cab, locked into the headache rack.

“You on the SASR, Jaws?” Jack said on the intercom.

“Roger, boss,” Alex Gomez said. “Locked and loaded, crosshairs on the motherfucker with the machine gun.”

“Drop it down on the driver,” Valentine said. “Everybody else, keep your sights on him but stand by. Jaws will take the shot. You ready, Corporal?”

“Fuckin’ A,” Jaws responded. “Got a range of fourteen hundred meters and closing straight at us at high speed. Wind is light, quartering left to right at two miles per hour. Aiming down at the wipers and letting him drive into my crosshairs.”

“Light him up,” Jack said.

The shot hit the windshield a few inches higher than Gomez had planned. It split the driver’s head at the top, exploding it from his nose up. The impact of the MK 211 Raufoss round set off its internal high-explosive charge and sent glass and fragments into the two other occupants of the pickup cab. The tungsten-carbide penetrator not only took off the top of the driver’s head, but also went through the cab and got the machine gunner square in the crotch.

Jaws’s single shot scored four killed. The tumbling truck was merely the aftermath, scattering their bodies across the desert not far from the remains of the Haji on the Honda.

“Fuck!” Bronco exclaimed. “Might as well have hit those fuckers with a 198. Dude, nice shot. You fucked up their shit!”

“That’s our job.” Jaws grinned. “We fuck shit up!”

“We get back to Lejeune, I’m putting that on a T-shirt.” Bronco laughed.

Then, together, they both chimed, “We fuck shit up!”

Jack had stayed on his spotting scope and tuned the focus far in the distance on their left flank. He didn’t like what he saw. Not just another rooster tail of dust, but a whole line of them. Headed at them from the side.

“Eyes left, gentlemen,” Valentine said. Now he understood how Custer must have felt when he saw the line of Sioux warriors coming over the rise at the Little Bighorn.

“Maybe we should pack our shit and head east,” Cotton said, already gathering his kit, getting ready to run.

“Fuck, dude, I’m packed,” Bronco Starr said, shouldering his gear.

Jaws was right with him, pack on his back and big gun in his hands. That’s when incoming shots began dancing off the sand along the ridge.

Both Scout-Snipers hit the deck and dropped into the dry wadi. Over their heads, the ridge came alive with incoming fire.

“Corporal Butler! Get your ass in here! Now!” Captain Mike Burkehart yelled as loud as his voice could carry.

No answer.

Burkehart stood over the open classified-documents-file safe; the green government logbook open in his hands. He yelled again, “Butler!”

Still no answer.

He slammed the drawer shut hard and went to his desk and picked up the phone, punching in the number for the MARSOC operations boss.

“Staff Sergeant Claybaugh,” Billy-C answered.

“Butler there with you?” Burkehart snapped, his words so sharp they could bite the heads off live kittens.

“Yes, sir,” Claybaugh answered. “He’s watching a training video, sir. Part of his NCO school.”

“Put it on pause and both of you get over here, standing tall before I can hang up this phone. That clear?” Burkehart commanded.

“Aye, aye, sir!” the staff sergeant responded.

In thirty-six seconds flat, both Staff Sergeant Billy Claybaugh and Corporal Ralph Butler burst through the front doors of MARSOC Detachment, Iraq Headquarters, Billy-C limping as he ran, his crutches in his hands.

“Sir! Staff Sergeant Claybaugh and Corporal Butler reporting as ordered!” Billy-C said, snapped at attention with Smedley tight at his left side.

The captain got in their faces. “One simple question. The one-five operation plan. Where is it?”

Both Marines looked scared. They didn’t have a clue.

“What?” Billy said.