James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (28 page)

And squeezed.

Nazario’s arms flung about, trying to free himself from the viselike grip, occasionally landing a blow or a scratch, but Acton kept pressing. Just a few more seconds and he would have Nazario out cold. Nazario dropped to his knees, jerking Acton forward and down.

He kept his grip.

The sound of Nazario’s hands slapping on the ground didn’t concern Acton until he realized what was happening.
He’s looking for the knife! Or the gun!
Metal scraped rock. And it didn’t sound like a knife. He squeezed harder. A shot rang out. Unaimed, but it sent the message.

Acton pushed forward with his left hand, reinforced by his own chin pressing into the back of Nazario’s head. Another shot. He felt a stinging sensation on his side, as if he had just been bitten by something. It wasn’t painful enough to have been a direct hit, but he was pretty sure he had just been grazed. He took a deep breath and jerked his viselike grip tighter while pushing on the back of Nazario’s neck. He felt a sudden snap, Nazario’s head noticeably moving forward as the crack of bone echoed through the small cave.

Nazario went limp.

Acton dropped the now lifeless body to the ground, then fell upon the cold stone himself, exhausted, eyes filled with tears as he realized what he had just done. He had taken a life with his bare hands. In Peru he had been forced to kill, but it was at a distance, with a gun. He had just reacted and it was over in seconds. He had then proceeded to save the life of his other attacker.

But this.

This took minutes. This took his bare hands. His victim’s sweat was on his hands, his arms, his clothes. He spat the bile from his mouth, certain he could actually taste Nazario. He took a deep breath.
He was going to kill you. He was going to kill all of you.
He nodded. He had done what was necessary. He had done the right thing.

And now he couldn’t let it go to waste.

He groped around the floor, and soon found the knife and gun, tucking both into his belt. Grabbing the body of Nazario, he rolled him over and pulled the satellite phone off his belt, then, removing the belt, removed the sheath for the knife. He looped his own belt through the hole on the sheath, slid the knife in its resting place, then searched Nazario’s pockets. He found one extra magazine, pocketed it, then hurried to the entrance of the hollow. Looking about, he found no one, and, rather than return to camp, he rushed north of it, toward an outcropping of rocks where he could survey the entire area without being seen, and in a direction from which he would most likely not be expected.

Hidden, he flipped the antennae open and sent a text message to the one person he knew who needed it the most.

we r alive

Base Commander’s Office

Diyarbakir Airbase, Turkey

“What’s happening?” asked Laura, jumping to her feet as the Colonel and Giasson entered the office of the Base Commander they were now waiting in, it being one of the few air conditioned spaces on the base. Laura didn’t know how to feel. For hours the love of her life was dead. Then he wasn’t. But he could be again. She growled in her head.
I just need answers!
Her outward expression was a little more calm, and probably seemed perfectly calm to those who didn’t know her.

“The Iranians have been contacted, and they are sending a rescue team in,” said Giasson.

“Can we trust them?”

Reading beat her to it. It was what they were all thinking.

Babcock shook his head. “Frankly, no. But will they kill them? I don’t think they would kill the Pope now that it’s been confirmed he’s alive on the ground. If they did, they wouldn’t have to worry about the Israelis hitting them, they’d have to worry about every Catholic country out there. Christ, Poland and the Philippines would probably declare war.”

“But you expect problems?”

Babcock nodded at Laura. “Two things. One, we don’t know how many hostage takers are alive with them. They most likely
don’t
want to be ‘rescued’”—the colonel created his own air quotes—“so there could be gunplay, and two, once they do rescue them, you can be almost guaranteed they’ll milk the situation for as long as they can, with only the Pope being released after photos and video are taken of him shaking the hands of every murderous cleric in the country, then they’ll probably hang on to everyone else, put on some sort of show trial, sentence them to death, then in exchange for some concession, release them to even more fanfare. It could take months, maybe years, before we ever see them in person again.”

Laura sat back down and the others in the room took their seats. “Perhaps it’s time to try and send a message back? To warn him?” It had been agreed not to send a reply, just in case James had managed to send a message surreptitiously, unbeknownst to his captors. She had never bought into that line of reasoning. It didn’t seem likely to her that he might have been able to get a phone from them without them knowing. He either had always had it, found it in the crash (which meant they didn’t know he had it), or he had taken it from them in a successful escape.

“We’ll have a Predator over the area in minutes, then we’ll have a better idea of what’s going on.”

“How do you know where they are? It’s been hours.”

“Because he made a call, and we pinpointed his location.”

Laura and Reading both leaned forward.

“Who did he call?”

3 Miles Inside the Green Zone

Iran

Acton watched from his vantage point as Federico emerged from the cave and began to search for him and Nazario. Not knowing where to look, he was calling out Nazario’s name into the increasing darkness. This was Acton’s opportunity to take out a second hostage taker, but he’d have to do it silently. Which meant either the knife, or hand to hand again, and the way Federico was holding his weapon, even the knife couldn’t assure a silent take down. One squeeze of his finger, and shots would be fired, even if it were in a death spasm.

p>
I need help.

He was sure the Iranians would be here soon. They must have figured out by now they were missing a jeep. And he didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them. He couldn’t leave to look for help. He was, after all, in Iran, so there would be no help to find, and more importantly, he couldn’t abandon his companions. Once they couldn’t find Nazario, who knew what they would do with the hostages. From all outward appearances, Nazario was the only one holding things together amongst the three.

His eyebrows shot up as a possible answer to his problems flashed through his mind. A smile etched itself across his face as he thought about it, then, nodding to himself, slowly made his way further from the camp, and out of earshot. He dialed his good friend, and boss, Dean Gregory Milton, at home. It rang twice before he heard a tiny voice answer. “Milton residence, how may I help you?”

Acton’s smile grew even more as he heard Milton’s daughter Niskha. “Hi sweetheart, this is Uncle Jim. Is your daddy home?”

“Uncle Jim! Daddy it’s Uncle Jim! Uncle Jim, Daddy walked all day today without his wheelchair! Daddy it’s Uncle Jim!” Acton had to laugh as he pictured Niskha talking into the phone to him, then screaming for her dad, while the phone was still positioned directly in front of her mouth.

He heard another voice come on the line. “Jim is that you?”

A wave of relief washed over him as he heard Greg’s voice.

“Bye, Uncle Jim!”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

There was a click as the phone was hung up, and the two college buddies were left alone to talk. “Jim, what the hell—”

“No time to talk, just listen. Got a pen and paper?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“Okay, take some notes, but I have no doubt this call is being recorded, so here goes. This message is for Delta Force Command. I need to get a message to BD, Big Dog, head of Bravo Team. I need help. Professor James Acton, the one who was involved with the crystal skulls in London, the one who was involved with the nuclear bomb issue last year, needs your help. I was on the plane that crashed, and I, along with the Pope, the head of the Roman Catholic Church, and Detective Inspector Chaney of Scotland Yard, are still alive, and being held captive by terrorists. We also have Iranian military units closing on our position. Trace this satellite call. I estimate we are near the Turkish border, one hour’s drive and five hours walk northwest from the crash site. Whoever is examining this call on Echelon, I need help. I don’t know what other keywords you need to flag this for immediate attention, but how about terrorist, bomb, hijack, anthrax, and I’m going to kill that infidel of a president you have.”

Acton took a deep breath.

“Done?”

“Hopefully that will get their attention.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Call my folks, tell them I’m okay, just in case they heard something to the contrary, then call Fort Bragg, and keep calling Fort Bragg, repeating as much of what I just said to them until they put you through to someone.”

“Will do. And Jim?”

“What?”

“How the hell do you keep getting yourself into these situations?”

“Someone wants to make a movie out of my life, and needs good material?”

“I’ll call Hollywood so maybe karma will back off for a bit.”

“I wish someone would.” Acton peeked around the corner of the rock and couldn’t see Federico anywhere. “I’ve got to go. Hopefully I’ll be talking to you soon.”

“Good luck, my friend. Be careful.”

“Will do. Oh, and Corky.”

“Yeeessss.”

Acton smiled at the way he drew out the word. He knew his friend hated that nickname.

“Great news on the walking.”

Acton hung up before he got all teary-eyed over his friend’s progress regaining his mobility. He still blamed himself for Milton being in a wheelchair, and until he saw his friend walking about like the old days, he never would forgive himself.

“Don’t move.”

Acton’s heart leapt into his throat at the sound of Federico’s voice, directly behind him. He stood up slowly, but left his arms down.
Never put your hands up unless they ask you to.
His SAS instructor’s voice echoed through his head. He calmed himself with slow steady breaths.
Your body may be prisoner, but your mind isn’t. It will be your key to escape.
He had a gun, he had a knife. He couldn’t see anyway to use either at the moment.

“Turn around, slowly.”

Getting at his gun would be almost impossible, so he decided it was best to offer it up. If Federico saw it on his own, he was liable to shoot first. “Do you want my gun first?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, take it easy, I’m going to remove it from my belt in my back, with two fingers, and drop it to the ground. Then I’ll kick it to you.”

“Okay.”

Acton reached behind his back and lifted up his shirt, revealing the gun tucked into his belt. He gripped the handle with his thumb and forefinger, deliberately shuffling his feet counterclockwise, so he could turn his head to the left and look at Federico as he did so. He pulled the gun slowly from his belt as he reached down with his now hidden right hand, and slowly pulled the knife from its sheath. With the gun free from his belt, he dropped it to the ground and continued to turn, positioning his left foot to flick the gun toward Federico, and, still hidden behind his torso, his right hand gripped the handle of the knife, his index finger on the top of the dull side of the blade, the hilt tucked into the palm of his hand. His shoulders, now perpendicular to Federico, hid his insane plan.

“Here you go.”

Acton flicked the gun as hard as he could. Federico flinched, his eyes on the “ball”, as it clattered across the rocky landscape. It slid to a stop at his feet. He bent over to pick it up, and as he did, he swung his Beretta PM12-S2 sub-machine gun behind his back.

Acton readied himself, stepping back and raising the knife level to his still hidden shoulder, wrist cocked.

Federico picked up the weapon, and stood. Acton turned, squaring his shoulders with his opponent as he stepped forward. Federico’s eyes bulged as Acton’s right hand whipped over his shoulder, the blade glistening in the last of the day’s sunlight. He felt his finger slide along the top of the knife as his hand gently loosened its grip, sending the blade hurling toward its target, the angle only changing slightly as it sliced through the air, his instructor having taught him spinning knife throws were only in the movies. Federico reached for his weapon, his eyes, and Acton’s, on the blade.

Federico turned, and as it became clear what was about to happen, Acton leapt forward. The knife buried itself in Federico’s shoulder. He screamed out in pain, the blade sinking at least a couple of inches into the fleshy target. In seconds Acton was on him, placing his foot behind Federico and shoving his enemy’s body over the leg, knocking him to the ground. Acton dropped down, pushing his knee into Federico’s gasping stomach, then punched him in the throat. He pulled the knife from Federico’s shoulder and wiped it clean on the man’s tunic, then, removing the man’s belt, flipped him over and bound his wrists together with it.

And it was over.

It had taken less than sixty seconds. His instructor would have been proud, and he didn’t have to kill this time, although that was more luck than anything else. If Federico hadn’t turned, the knife would have buried itself in his chest, most likely killing him.

He quickly scanned his surroundings, making sure they were still alone, and for a brief moment, spotted something on the horizon. Federico started to groan and Acton fished a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it in the man’s mouth, silencing him as best he could. Acton perched behind a nearby rock, peering in the direction from which they had travelled earlier. It was now almost completely dark.

Except for the bobbing headlights in the distance.

At least three vehicles, possible four, were approaching.

They probably got a bead on the call.

There was no time for regrets. He knew he had done the right thing. The call was their only hope of rescue from friendly forces. And if he knew his friend Greg, he wouldn’t stop until he had satisfaction.