Payback (2 page)

With the
majority of the Delta Force being made up of former US Army Rangers, support
had been quickly garnered and local SWAT was now securing the perimeter,
keeping the cameras out of sight. With today’s 24/7 live news coverage, one of
the last things they needed were the terrorists inside watching a live feed of
his assault on their building.

Which
was why Control back at Fort Bragg was monitoring every news feed whether over
the air, satellite, cable or Internet, for any possible leaks. Cutting cable
and power meant nothing nowadays. With cellphones and satphones there was
pretty much no way you could guarantee your hostiles’ communications had been
terminated.

So the
press was kept back.

The shot
rang out, a crack that echoed between the buildings, and yet another hostage
crumpled to the ground, the terrorist saying nothing, merely turning on his
heel and walking back inside, his back to the police, a final insult to law and
order in this great country, knowing they wouldn’t dare touch him.

“Bravo Zero-One,
Bravo Zero-Two. We’re in position, ready to breach, over.”

It’s
about damned time.

He
didn’t blame his second-in-command, Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme. Maps of
the sewage system had been late to arrive, but as soon as they had, it had only
taken fifteen minutes for Red’s team to get into position. Red was his best
friend. Dawson had been best man at his wedding and was Godfather to Red’s
young son, Bryson. He trusted Red with his life, as he did every single man on
his team. They had been through hell and back over the years, and he’d die for
any one of them.

But let’s
try to avoid that today.

“Acknowledged.
Control, Bravo Zero-One. We’re ready to execute. Advise of any flags on the
play, over.”

“Bravo
Zero-One, Control, you’re cleared for entry, over.”

“Roger
that, Control. Bravo Team, Bravo Zero-One. Eliminating rooftop targets in three,
two, one, execute!”

Two
muffled but still loud shots could be heard, Niner’s M24A2 Sniper Weapon System
firing a shot at incredible velocity across the street to the target rooftop.
Before the report even registered the target was down, a moment later the
second target dropped, taken out by another sniper team on the opposite side of
the building.

“Control,
Bravo Zero-One. Any sign of activity, over?”

“Negative,
Bravo Zero-One, you’re still clear, over.”

Two
down, six to go. Or more.

He rose,
the sun low in the horizon behind them, at just the perfect angle to blind
anyone who might be looking out the window of their target building. But
according to Control they were clear. Sergeant’s Will “Spock” Lightman, Trip
“Mickey” McDonald and Eugene “Jagger” Thomas stepped up beside him. “Ready?” he
asked, already knowing the answer. These guys were the definition of born
ready.

Spock
cocked an eyebrow. “Aren’t we always?”

“Then
let’s do it.”

He
raised his grappling gun, took aim at the roof below them and fired, the hook sailing
through the air dragging a coil of rope sitting at his feet. Three more fired
beside him, the lines arcing gracefully and silently through the air, embedding
with a thud into the concrete below, small puffs of pulverized concrete dust
indicating the impact points.

They
quickly tightened off all four lines and Dawson hooked his harness to the rope
and stepped to the edge, the others doing the same. “Bravo Team, Bravo
Zero-One, proceeding to target rooftop, over.”

He
stepped off, leaning back in the harness and slid down the steep incline. This
was always the exciting moment for him, his heart skipping a few beats as he
eyeballed the hook at the other end, wondering if it would pull out. If it came
loose before he was too far, he could brake then swing backward, hard into the
building he had just come from, and depending upon physics, he would probably
survive with a few broken bones, perhaps just some bruises.

But once
past the point where the rope was longer than the drop to the ground, he was
hitting pavement no matter what he did.

And
those broken bones might never mend properly.

Which
would mean he’d be out of The Unit.

I’d
rather be dead.

He
wasn’t sure if he actually meant it. There were enough men in Delta that had
been injured seriously enough to never be able to return to duty, at least not
Operator status. Some were able to go back into combat in the regular forces or
command a desk, but Delta needed all of its personnel at 100%.

99%
didn’t cut it.

He
passed the point of no return, not that there was any possibility of return,
gaining speed as he did so. He had his hand ready to pull his Glock 22 from its
holster on his hip just in case he had to cut loose and shoot out a window in
the hopes of sailing through it rather than being yanked back and onto the
pavement.

He
cleared the edge of the roof, a slight sigh of relief escaping as he braked,
rapidly killing his speed as his feet hit the roof, running to a stop. He
unhooked himself and quickly checked the two bodies confirming the kills as the
others regained their footing.

“Bravo
Team, Bravo Zero-One. We’re on the rooftop. Bravo Zero-Two, execute breach,
over.”

“Bravo
Zero-One, Bravo Zero-Two. Proceeding with breach, over.”

Dawson
motioned for Spock and Jagger to secure the door leading to the stairwell when
a cellphone began to ring. Dawson spun toward the hostile Niner had taken out
and saw a cellphone flashing in the man’s hand.

“Control,
Bravo Zero-One. One of the hostiles has a cellphone ringing up here. We’re
about to be made, over.”

“This is
Control Actual,” came Colonel Thomas Clancy’s voice over the comm. “Proceed at
your discretion, over.”

“Roger
that, Control Actual, proceeding, over.”

Now
let’s just hope they assume we’re jamming their signal.

“What a wonderful stink we’ve discovered.”

Master
Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme smiled at Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James as he tried
breathing through his mouth, which while masking some of the smell threatened
to overwhelm him with the taste. He wasn’t sure which was worst.

He
swallowed.

Taste.

He
switched back to his nose.

“Not
much longer,” he said. “According to the map we’ve got a hundred feet to go
then we’re directly under the parking structure.”

In the
loosely organized Bravo Team, he was considered second-in-command merely based
on seniority, and the fact someone had to be. All of the men were essentially
equals with their own area of highly specialized expertise. Their unit was top
secret, their missions highly classified, and with them usually being
undercover quite often, they were allowed to sport civilian haircuts and
beards, privileges reserved for the Special Forces community.

Which
was why he kept his hair completely shaved, his scalp kept clean with the blade
of his prized Bowie knife. The guys always laughed at him when he would break
it out in the field to take off a little stubble, but it was the sharpest blade
he had, and its length meant fewer strokes.

It was
just more practical than a shaving kit.

And
cooler.

His son
Bryson loved watching him perform the ritual, it necessary because his namesake
red hair was far too noticeable and far too out of place in most of the locales
he found himself in.

Shaved
heads however were far more common, and often went unnoticed with a traditional
keffiyeh covering his scalp.

“There
it is,” said Atlas, the ridiculously muscled man’s deep voice echoing through
the sewers they were now in. Red looked up and saw the access hatch above,
highlighted by Atlas’ flashlight.

Red motioned
and Sergeant Zack “Wings” Hauser rushed forward and unfolded a ladder, Sergeant
Danny “Casey” Martin jumping up the steps, lighting a Broco cutting torch as he
did so.

“Bravo
Leader, Bravo Zero-Two. We’re in position, ready to breach, over.”

Dawson’s
voice acknowledged and the all clear was given by Control. Moments later the
order they were waiting for came through.

“Bravo
Team, Bravo Zero-One. We’re on the rooftop. Bravo Zero-Two, execute, over.”

He
smiled, motioning for Casey to proceed. “Bravo Zero-One, Bravo Zero-Two. Proceeding
with breach, over.”

Within
moments Casey was cutting through the metal cover that would give them access
to the conference center’s parking structure. As they waited updates came in
over the comms and by the time Casey was through, Dawson and his team were
safely on the roof, the two lookouts eliminated.

“I’m
through.” Casey tossed the torch down to Wings then punched up with the heel of
his hand, the metal hatch lifting up then hitting something. “Shit!” hissed Casey
as he pushed the hatch, it again hitting something. He shoved his head up and
peered through the several inches of opening. “There’s a goddamned car parked
here!”

“What?”
Red stepped forward, looking up at the hatch then the map on his tablet
computer. “This isn’t a parking spot!”

“Well, somebody’s
parked here.”

“Cut the
hatch off, see if we can squeeze under,” said Red as he activated his comm.
“Bravo Zero-One, Bravo Zero-Two. We’ve got a problem here. There’s a car parked
over the hatch. Give us a moment to see if we can still make entry, over.”

“Roger
that Bravo Zero-Two. We’re entering the stairwell now, over.”

The
torch was relit and Casey made quick work of the hinges, now exposed with the
hatch open a few inches. Within a minute he was handing the torch then the hatch
down. He stepped up.

“No way
we’re fitting under this,” he said. “But it’s on a bit of an incline. If I can
cut the brake cables it might roll out of the way.”

“Do it.”

Casey pulled
a set of cutters and went to work, the snap of lines being cut indicating
excruciating progress, this a delay he hadn’t counted on.

It would
just mean a little more hustle on their part assuming Casey succeeded.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“Transmission’s
engaged. I’ll need to cut through the driveshaft. Hand me the torch.” He
reached down then stopped. “Wait a minute. Hammer.”

Atlas
handed it to him. Tapping then the sound of something metal hitting the
concrete was followed by a laugh. “Thar she goes!” said Casey as he stepped
down. “The driveshaft was almost rusted through. That thing’s a deathtrap.”

Red
looked up and smiled as the undercarriage slowly began to move, gaining speed,
emergency lighting suddenly revealed as the way cleared.

“Go! Go!
Go!” he hissed, motioning for the others to climb the ladder as Casey pushed
himself through the opening. “Bravo Zero-One, Bravo Zero-Two, we’re through,
over.”

“Roger
that, report when in position, over.”

Red
stepped up the ladder and raised his hands, Mickey and Wings hauling him up.
There was a smashing sound, not too loud, to his left. He looked to see the
car, a Jaguar XK-8 convertible, pressed against the far wall at the bottom of
the incline, the front end a little crunched, but nothing too severe. He looked
around. “What the hell was that doing parked in the middle of the lane?”

Casey
shrugged. “It’s a Jag. Probably broke down right here.”

“Where’s
the owner?” asked Wings as they headed for the stairwell, sweeping the entire
area for hostiles.

They
reached the door, Atlas checking the window. “Looks clear.”

Red
activated the comm, about to notify Dawson when a noise behind them had them
all spinning. He raised his MP5 submachine gun as something in the shadows
rushed toward them.

“Halt
and identify yourself or we
will
kill you.”

Shoes skidded
on dirty concrete, the sound suggesting the smooth soles of dress shoes. Wings
activated the tactical light on his weapon, aiming it at the new arrival.

A
business suit filled with a terrified civilian was revealed.

“Hands
up!”

Hands,
trembling, shot up.

“Identify
yourself.”

“Brimah Macaulay.”

Unusual
name.
“What are you doing here?”

“Hiding
in my car. I heard gunfire just after I parked and have been down here ever
since.”

Red kept
his weapon trained on the man, his skin a dark black just like all of the
hostiles. He just couldn’t take the chance. He was about to have Atlas frisk
the man when a shot rang out and Wings dropped. Red spun toward where he
thought the shot came from as he dropped to a knee, the hard surfaces of the
parking garage creating an echo chamber. Mickey fired, three rounds, toward the
left. Red adjusted his aim, spotting the shooter coming down the ramp doubled
over, at least one of Mickey’s rounds having found its target. Red squeezed the
trigger, taking the man down as Atlas rushed toward the new arrival, weapon
raised.

Something
moved to their right. Red hit the ground, rolling once as he took aim at their civilian.
Macaulay was reaching behind his back for something and just as Red got a bead
on the man the grip of a Beretta was revealed.

He fired
twice, both shots hitting the man in the center of his chest, his eyes bursting
wide in shock as the wounds quickly stained his shirt. Red scanned the rest of
the garage for other targets but found none.

Wings
moaned.

Red
didn’t look, instead continuing to cover their position as he activated the
comm. “Bravo Zero-One, Bravo Zero-Two. Shots fired, I repeat, shots fired. Two
hostiles down, Bravo One-Two has taken a hit, standby, over.” He watched Atlas
give the thumbs up as he disarmed the corpse. “You okay?”

Wings
moaned again. “Yeah, took one in the vest.” Red stole a quick glance and saw
Wings push himself to his knees as he examined his body armor, wiggling the
round free. He stuffed it in his pocket. “That one had my name on it.”