Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) (14 page)

10:37 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

Jackson and Mike walked single file along the side of the
road, shrouded by shadows of the Virginia woodland as they clutched their
silenced submachine guns, their eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the
darkness. They searched the shadows furtively, their knees bent as they walked,
their weapons sweeping through the darkness of the woods as they stepped
towards the seemingly abandoned facility that stood a half mile from their
current location.

Mike was on point, and Jackson covered the rear of their two
man team. Both men knew their roles this evening all too well and both had come
prepared for a fight, but despite their training and preparation, the men had a
distinct tactical disadvantage.

Their enemy was equipped with night vision goggles.

Jackson never saw it coming. As he stepped ahead through the
woods beside the road, his world suddenly went dark as 50,000 volts surged
through his body. He fell to the soft spongy earth below his feet, gyrating in
pain.

He heard the concussion of gunfire moments later.

Despite being trained to count the successive repeats of
gunfire, Jackson was too dazed to count.

Jackson struggled; his hands seeking purchase on the ground
as he attempted to push up from his prone position face down in the dirt.

No luck. Jackson's muscles continued to spasm uncontrollably
as his world darkened and he lost consciousness once again.

As Jackson's eyesight darkened beginning at the periphery,
he heard a radio crackle somewhere in the darkness.

"Base, this is team 1. We have neutralized the
intruders. Be advised, we had to put one down. We will be en route to base with
the survivor momentarily."

Jackson didn't hear the reply. The darkness closed around
him once more as he felt strong arms
zip tie
his
wrists together in the grime of the forest floor.

Jackson's eyes flickered open after a few seconds. He was
lying prostrate on the leaves and roots of the Virginia woods, a flashlight
shining in his eyes as a four man team swept the area around him.

"He's up." Said one of the men as Jackson surveyed
his surroundings. He rolled onto his side, feeling for the familiar pressure of
the 9mm Beretta.

It had been removed from his shoulder holster. Jackson's
MP5K submachine gun, too, was nowhere in sight.

Not that it would have mattered. He was hogtied on the
forest floor like an animal.

The men were sweeping the woods. He could hear their radio
chatter. They were searching for Mike.

"You said you got him?" One of the men said,
looking perplexed as he glanced towards his colleague.

"At least four rounds," said the other,
"center mass."

"Four shots to center mass." The other man
chuckled sadistically.

"There's no way he's getting far after being shot four
times with armor piercing
45 caliber ammunition
. Call
it in, and let's get this guy back to base." He indicated Jackson.

Jackson closed his eyes, blinking back tears.

Mike was dead. The men were right. There is no way that Mike
Jones could have lived through a barrage of gunfire like that.

Jackson rolled to his side, peering around the forest. There
was no sign of Mike.

Jackson's muscles still twitched occasionally as he lay in
the dirt. His mind raced as the cool earth embraced his body.

He struggled to understand why he had been
tasered
while Mike had been killed. There could be only one
explanation.

Intelligence.

The men needed to know what type of information that Jackson
and Mike had on their operation. They needed to know if there were any
additional members of their team, and if so, where they were and what their
intentions remained.

A flashlight shone in Jackson's face. It was attached to the
barrel of a 12 gauge riot shotgun held in the very capable hands of one of the
olive skinned members of the security team. The light blinded Jackson
temporarily as he was dragged to his feet by two of the other men.

"I don't understand why we don't just kill this guy
now." Said one of the two men who half carried Jackson down the potholed
road that led to the abandoned warehouse.

"Assad wants him alive," replied the other.
"Orders are orders."

The first man grunted, clearly unhappy with having to half
way carry Jackson's dead weight down the road almost half a mile to the
warehouse where Jackson was now sure the chemicals from yesterday were stored.

Jackson's breathing normalized as he began to come out of
the daze induced when he had been hit with the stun gun. His feet were
beginning to find their balance and he was able to put some weight on his still
shaky legs.

Despite his condition, Jackson forced himself to catalogue
and record little pieces of information in his mind as he continued to regain
his faculties. The team that carried him had been well trained, he noted first.
This was evidenced by a few behavioral characteristics that Jackson noticed
from his own training and combat experience.

The men were working as a team. The two that held Jackson's
upper arms and guided him down the road were at his sides. Another member of
the four man team was on point, sweeping the road furtively with night vision
goggles and the muzzle of what appeared to be an M4 carbine. The final member
stood at the rear of the small formation, his weapon covering the captive and
the rear flank. It was
textbook
.

Jackson watched the men with a detached interest. Yes, he
thought, they had definitely been well trained.

The men had half carried and half dragged Jackson to the
tall and rusty gate that stood before the entrance to the warehouse. Though the
facility was quiet and dark in the still of the late summer evening, Jackson
could make out hulking forms in the parking garage, their yellow exteriors glinting
in what ambient light there was.

Penske trucks, he decided as he peered through the fence.
There were at least twelve, exactly matching the one that Jackson had seen the
first day at the Carmike Chemical warehouse. Jackson closed his eyes again as the
men dragged him through the gate and into the parking lot of the seemingly
abandoned form of the decaying warehouse structure.

The men loosened their grip on Jackson's upper arms as they
entered the facility, and the lack of support almost sent the Jackson tumbling
to the ground. But, he caught himself and stood erect, his shoulders set
defiantly as he awaited his fate.

The four man team formed a small semicircle around the
former SEAL as Jackson panted heavily in the moonless night.

A man stepped from the darkness.

"Mr. Pike," he said, "I am Assad."

The fifth man lit a cigarette as he took another step
towards Jackson.

"Hi Assad," said Jackson.
"Seems
like you already know my name."

"Indeed, Mr. Pike. And I'll know more very soon."

Jackson smirked in the darkness. If this guy thought he was getting
any information, he was in for a big surprise.

"We'll see, Assad;" said Jackson as the rough
hands pulled a sand bag over his head and shoulders, grabbed him and maneuvered
him towards the gray form of the darkened warehouse.

10:42 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

"Mother fuckers."
Mike
Jones whispered as he breathed heavily, his broad back braced against a tree in
the woods near where Jackson had been taken.

He pressed his thick hands beneath the bulletproof vest that
covered his upper chest and internal organs, feeling for blood. His hand came
away dry and he pressed the back of his head against the thick bark of the tree
behind him.

Mike felt his chest again, this time feeling beneath the
vest for signs of internal trauma. His chest felt like he had been stabbed with
a knife, but the vest seemed to have stopped the bullets.

But, he noted painfully, he definitely had at least three
broken ribs.

Mike's breathing was agony as he continued to take stock of
his condition. He had several broken ribs, and had rolled his ankle as he ran
through the woods after the initial burst of gunfire. But he was alive.

For the first time in his life, Mike Jones was glad he had
been wounded in Afghanistan.

Had he completed what would be his final tour without being
wounded, Mike never would have reinforced his body armor with titanium plating.
It had been that same titanium plating that had just saved Mike Jones' life. If
he had been wearing standard Kevlar body armor, Mike would be dead.

But Mike had already been wounded by armor piercing
ammunition, and there wasn't going to be a second time.

So Mike Jones continued to breath. Albeit painfully, air
still respired from his lungs as he rested against the bark of a tree, deep in
the Virginia woods in the cool of the September night.

Mike was grateful to be alive. He was also grateful for the
distinct tactical advantage he'd gained when the men had shot him.

They were certain that he was dead.

Mike shifted his weight against the tree, kicking a strong
left leg beneath his injured body, his right ankle shooting pain through his
body as he stood, unsteadily coming to his feet in the woods.

He didn't have much time.

He pulled a small black prepaid cell phone from his pants
pocket and shook his head as he began to dial three digits he thought he would
never allow himself to call.

After just one ring, a voice answered. "9-1-1, what's
your emergency?"

"I just saw a group of four heavily armed men kidnap a
man. I saw them head towards a warehouse located at 214 Riverside Drive, in
Sumner." Mike grimaced as he spoke, the pain of his broken ribs and the
fact that he was actually calling the authorities causing him both physical and
existential misery.

"You say..."

"You heard me right. If you have any questions, play
back the recording. I'd recommend that you people send everything you've got.
These men are armed with riot gear, machine guns and handguns. I also believe
them to be in possession of large quantities of explosives."

Mike flipped the phone shut and tossed it into the woods.

He grunted as he took his first step towards the warehouse.
It was going to be a long half mile run.

Mike covered the ground between where Jackson had been taken
and the side of the warehouse quickly, especially for a man with three broken
ribs and a sprained ankle.

He was not about to lose another team member and friend. Not
tonight. He'd lost too many in Afghanistan.

He pushed through the pain, his dark clothes obscuring him
in the black of night.

Mike stopped short of the edge of the woods, just yards from
the security fence which lined the heavy concrete building.

He panted painfully and surveyed the facility. There was no
chance of accessing the facility from the main gate. It was securely closed and
guarded by a two man team who Mike could see pacing through the darkness.

Mike turned and stared straight ahead. The security fence
was approximately twelve feet high and was topped by barbed wire. Going over
the fence was out of the question. He would need to go under, he noted,
glancing again towards the main gate and the dark forms stepping through the
darkness.

Luckily, Mike noted, this type of facility had been designed
to keep out vagrants and petty thieves, not trained special operators. The
fencing was flimsy at best, and poorly maintained now since it had fallen out
of use.

Mike was grateful for this lack of maintenance.

He wheezed as he tucked his muscular body beneath the heavy
metal fence, the MP5K machine gun laid out before him. He slid under metal
chain link tines of the fence and came to rest on the other side.

He came to his feet and crouched low, the MP5K machine gun
now slung over his shoulder and the silenced Beretta 9mm handgun clutched in
his right hand. His left gripped the blacked out, razor sharp Ka-Bar knife.

He turned. There appeared to be only one entrance to the
facility, and to access the heavy metal door that led into the concrete
facility, Mike would need a key. A key he was certain one of the two men who
stood guarding the chain link gate to the facility would have.

He walked towards the men as they spoke in low voices to one
another, neither aware of the silent death which was creeping from behind them.

Mike hesitated in the darkness, his muscular form shielded
by the great yellow Penske trucks that sat silently in the night. He took a
deep breath. He needed to be quick.

He was around 7 yards from the two guards when he stepped
from behind the truck and fired four shots in quick succession. The silenced
weapon was quiet in the darkness, and the successive repeat of gunfire was only
as loud as the soft thuds of the men's bodies hitting the pavement.

Mike swiveled his head, searching the parking lot for any
other security personnel. There were none in sight, and Mike walked quickly to
the bodies of the two men, each of whom had two rounds neatly through their
hearts.

He crouched down and searched the men for their keys as he
scanned the area. Neither man had a key to the facility.

No keys.

Shit, thought Mike, running back to the shadows of the
Penske trucks. He crouched near the closest one, sheltered by its thick black
tires while he plotted his next move.

If he didn't get to Jackson before the police arrived, the
men inside would kill him.

Mike smiled. That was not going to happen.

He walked to the closest truck, his calloused hands lifting
the lever to the gate. He climbed slowly into the cargo bay and winced in pain,
his broken ribs causing him agony as he flung his heavy frame into the rear of
the tall box truck.

The contents of the truck made Mike cringe anew. Large
barrels of chemicals and sticks of plastic explosives lined the interior of the
truck.

Luckily, he would only need a little bit of the latter.