Echo Six: Black Ops 5 - Strikeforce Syria (4 page)

"You should not have come here, infidels! Now you will die, and my people will know that Ibrahim Abbas has once again killed the Crusaders who dared to interfere with the will of Allah."

Talley ignored the bullshit. "Where’s the other man, Rothstein?"

The Arab looked surprised. "Rothstein? Forget him. You are about to die. Say your prayers, if you think your false God will listen."

He nodded. "Buddy, someone is listening, but it sure ain’t God."

Abbas snorted his contempt and moved the barrel of the AK-47S away from the Ambassador. It was the move Talley had been waiting for.

"Jesse."

The 'thump' sounded loud in the brief silence, as Whitefeather's heavy, silenced sniper bullet smacked into the Arab’s brain. His body fell to the floor and lay crumpled in a bloody heap, like yesterday's garbage. Talley stepped over the liquid matter soaking into the carpet, a mix of blood and brains, to check the Ambassador. There was no need to confirm the terrorist was dead. The center of Cairo would not see any miracles this day. He turned to the older man.

"Ambassador Perlman, we're here to get you out."

The older man didn't move. "Who are you?"

"NATO, we were invited in by Jerusalem."

Talley helped him to his feet, and he nodded his head sadly. "In that case, I thank you for saving me, but many of my staff did not survive this day."

"I guess not. Sir, we're looking for a man named Benjamin Rothstein. Is he here?"

He shook his head. "It seems that everyone today is interested in Professor Rothstein. No, he is not here. The terrorists took him away as soon as they arrived."

"Damn! Do you know where they took him?"

He shook his head, clearly working something out. After a pause, he replied, "I'm afraid not."

It was obvious he knew more than he was prepared to divulge, but it would have to wait.

"Very well, we'll deal with him later. Right now, we need to get you out of here." He keyed his mic. "This is Echo One. We're pulling out. Get the survivors together inside the main entrance. Guy, we're going to need transport to get away."

His second-in-command replied, "A truck or a bus, something like that?"

"Yeah, but make it quick. The Egyptian cops are not known to be fast, but they’ll get here sometime soon. And Guy…"

"What is it?"

"When you find us a vehicle, try not to kill anyone. They take a dim view of it here in Egypt.”

“Except here in the Israeli Embassy. I'll do my best, Boss. Give me five minutes."

Guy's squad raced down the staircase, and he followed, motioning the Ambassador to stick with him. "Roy, take care of the Ambassador. Jesse, cover our six. I think we got them all, but if anyone so much as breathes a hostile noise, waste them."

"Copy that."

When they reached the lobby, two of his men were guarding the shattered door, which was open to the street. The warm evening air blew in, carrying with it the smells of the Cairo street, a mix of spice and sewage. Right outside the doorway laid the body of the suicide bomber; the one who spearheaded the assault. It was shredded and unrecognizable, except for the head.

A kid! Dear God, what is it with these people?

He turned away and looked around the lobby. Bodies of dead Israelis and Palestinian terrorists were strewn around the floor.

More wasted life,
he reflected bitterly.

Many of the Israeli staff had perished, and there were no reports of terrorist survivors. He keyed his mic.

"This is Echo One. Stay sharp, there could be hostiles still unaccounted for. We're waiting for Guy to locate transport to get us out, so we’ll use the time to secure the area. I don’t want any squirters popping up. Did we take any casualties?"

A chorus of negatives came back.

Thank Christ for that. A hot zone in the center of Cairo is not the best place in the world to suffer a wound. How do these people live like this, the filth and the stink?

He was about to ask Perlman again about Benjamin Rothstein when he heard a slight sound from behind the Embassy reception desk. He motioned to his men.

"Roy, watch the Ambassador. Jesse, cover me. There's someone moving back there. I'll check it out."

Whitefeather held his rifle ready. He carried a Heckler & Koch HK417, his preferred choice. The weapon was a designated marksman rifle with a 20-inch barrel, loaded with heavy 7.62x51mm NATO rounds. He'd proved himself capable of hitting targets at vast distances in training, and on his first live mission, he’d already proved himself with the kill in the Ambassador's office. Talley felt reassured to have him watching his back. He crept forward and poked the barrel of his MP7 around the desk. On the floor lay the bloodied and ruined body of a boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old. He was wearing typical Palestinian dress with the iconic keffiyeh wrapped around his neck. He felt his guts lurch.

Another kid! Dear God, he's only a few years older than my own son, Joshua; just a kid who's been suckered into picking up a gun to sacrifice his young life for the sake of the ideals of a bunch of Islamic crazies.

He was sick and angry at the waste of another young life and vowed to get the kid out alive. Maybe if he were treated, he’d recover from his wounds and begin to understand that not everything in the West was as bad as his fanatical leaders painted it. He felt a flicker of anger at Palestinians for the way they recruited children to do their dirty work. The boy's eyes opened, and Talley leaned down over him to speak.

"Where are you hurt, son?"

The deep brown eyes gazed at him, filled with both pain and loathing, but he was silent.

"You speak English? I may be able to help you, get you to a hospital."

The boy's lips moved, and Talley had to bend down closer to listen. He could see the deep wound in the kid’s chest. Blood was bubbling out, mixed with escaping air from his lungs. If he didn't get help soon, he'd drown in his own blood. Suddenly, his words became clear.

"I speak English, Crusader pig. I don't need your help."

Talley sighed.

What have the Islamic lunatics done to these children, to make them so filled with spite and hate? To sacrifice their young lives before they've even begun. Stupid.

He looked for Whitefeather.

"Jesse, this kid needs help. Lend me a hand, we need to dress his wound."

The Indian grunted an acknowledgement and took off his backpack to extract the necessary medical supplies. Talley looked back down at the kid.

"Don't worry, we'll do our best to…" He felt his mouth drop open in astonishment.

The child had risen further, supporting himself on one elbow, and now he had a pistol aimed at him, ready to fire. His eyes blazed with fury, and his lips moved.

"Now you will die, American…"

Both shots fired almost in the same instant. The 9mm round from the Makarov smacked into Talley's upper leg, tearing a deep gouge in the skin. He was jolted by the shock of the impact and grabbed at the desk for support. The shot from Jesse's HK fired a split second later, hitting the kid square in the center of his forehead. He slammed back to the floor, and this time he wouldn't get back up.

Despite his pain, he felt the agony of the child's death more. Jesse had no choice. If he hadn't fired, the kid would have kept pulling the trigger, and he’d have died. The pain in his guts wrenched at him, and his vision swam as everything went gray. He felt the overwhelming grief of a father for his sons, for his own sons, and for the young victims of Islamic brutality. Somewhere, they would have fathers, maybe men like him, men who loved them. Whatever their religious views, their sons were dead, torn to pieces in a stinking Cairo street.

He’d seen so many battles, and too many children going to their deaths. Always in the name of one lunatic cause or another. The grief clung to him, a dark, wet cloud of misery. Bit it soon disappeared, to be replaced by a tremendous anger. He wanted to strike out, to find every man responsible for sending these kids to their deaths and to wipe them off the face of the earth. But he was one man, and these callous Islamic fanatics could be counted in the tens of thousands. He looked down again at the body lying slumped behind the desk and shook his head.

"The poor little bastard. He won't need those medical supplies."

Whitefeather nodded. "You’re right about that, but he hit you. I’ll put a dressing on the wound before you bleed to death. Can you walk?"

Talley suddenly remembered the pain of his wound, and the agony lanced through him as if a blunt knife was being twisted around in his leg.

"It’s just a graze. Slap on the dressing."

"You want a painkilling shot?"

"No, I have to stay sharp. I'll get it cleaned up when we get out of Cairo. That can’t be soon enough, I've seen worse Islamic shitholes, but not many. Sending kids to do a man’s work, the fuckers."

Whitefeather nodded. “It’s weird, these bastards only think about butchering and killing people. Why don’t they spend their time cleaning their shitty neighborhoods?"

Talley grimaced. Weird was one way of putting it. People had used stronger language to describe the bloodthirsty followers of Islam.

We were going to help that kid. It was our first instinct. His first instinct was to spill blood, to kill.

Rovere interrupted his thoughts.

"There's a crowd building on the street, Boss.” Then he smiled. “Hey, there's a tourist bus heading toward us, and it looks like Guy in the driving seat."

Talley looked outside at the crowds who were starting to chant slogans. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but the meaning was clear enough, death to somebody. Anybody. Guy was fifty meters away in a sleek, gleaming white tourist coach, banging the horn as he forced a way through the teeming multitudes. As he neared the Embassy, his progress slowed even more, as furious protesters refused to give way. He could see the writing on the bodywork now, 'Happytours of Giza, Hassle Free Holidays'.

We could all do with one of those.

Rovere joined him.

"He isn't going to make it. We need to go out there."

He shook his head. "It won’t make the crowd disperse. We need a diversion to clear the crowd off the street."

Rovere nodded thoughtfully. The crowd was becoming angrier, boiling with hatred. It was then Talley saw a truck loaded with bottled gas, parked while the driver made a delivery. He called for Jesse to join him and pointed it out.

"I want you to fire at the gas bottles and…"

Rovere put his hand on his arm. "Abe, when they explode, it'll be like a bomb going off. The casualties would be bad."

He nodded. "I understand, but it’s not going to explode. Not like that.”

There’re children out there. Children like the kid whose body was already beginning to stiffen. There'll be no more killing of young kids, not on my watch.

"Jesse, fire at the tops of the gas bottles and blast away the valves. You’re carrying tracer rounds?"

Whitefeather nodded. "Sure. I have a clip loaded with alternate solid and tracer."

"Okay, once those bottles start shooting flames, people will think they're about to explode. My guess is they'll want to be any place other than this street. Do it now. Guy is stuck out there."