Recall (17 page)

Carter reached behind to the small of his back with both hands and pulled out two daggers. The blades were short but had gnarly, jagged edges clipped with wire cutters. He walked to the table, opened a small bottle, and poured alcohol over them.

“To increase pain,” he said. He took a salt shaker from the table, shook it heavily on the blades. He turned back and put his foot into Amin's groin again and stretched out his arms with the daggers in firm grasp. Amin was a worthy subject. No cries for mercy. No shouts of anger. But fear glimmered on his face, from his swollen eyes. He could probably get honest answers from him now, but he needed to go a little further, to ensure he got the truth.

Carter whispered, “I am going to plunge these into your flesh and then you'll answer my questions, won't you?”

Amin stuttered a response. “But . . . but you haven't asked anything.”

Carter smiled. “I haven't reached my fill. Not yet.”

With machinelike precision, Carter pumped the daggers into Amin's thighs repeatedly. His screams were deafening. He paused only to refill his lungs. His olive face turned deep red. The veins in his neck and forehead stood out like poison ivy vines on the trunk of a tree. Blood flowed, but not in gushes. Carter stared into his eyes and laughed, barely audible during the pauses in Amin's screams.

Carter twisted the knives in Amin's thighs. Amin screamed for mercy, but Carter pulled out the daggers and plunged them in again, laughing hysterically.

“We have all night! No one knows we're here.”

Amin begged for the question until Carter leaned in and shouted in his face, “Which of the drivers are traitors? Which are working for you?”

“Noam!” Amin cried, repeating it several times. He said he only knew the one name. Noam is what he'd told his handler. He'd never seen him before and didn't know what he looked like. Amin answered the rest of Carter's questions without hesitation. The warehouse was only a temporary holding site for Lori until VEVAK moved her the next day. They hadn't expected a rescue operation so quickly. They were keeping Lori away from military locations, hoping to lure in an American team. Then Noam would lead the rescuers into an ambush while on the way to the Afghan border. That way, no matter where or when the rescue came, the Iranians would take them all with the fewest casualties. Noam had called an hour earlier to warn that a rescue operation was in motion.

Carter smirked and the redness faded from his face. He stepped into the stairway. Red followed close behind. Lori rummaged through a battered cardboard box with a red cross on the side, resting on one of the bottom shelves. Carter grabbed the handrail and leaned on it as he commed in.

“You're four minutes late,” said the colonel.

Carter's voice was monotone, as if reading a script. “Status is as follows. There's at least one traitor in the Israeli exfil team. They're planning on ambushing us on the way to the Afghan border. The traitor's name is Noam. Our prisoner doesn't know if there are any others besides him.”

“He doesn't know or you couldn't get it out of him?”

Carter glanced back at Amin. Lori was pressing white gauze on one of his leg wounds. He was screaming for the shot he'd been promised. Red offered a wink and a thumbs-up.

“He told us everything he knew, but he might not know everything. I've got an idea I've used before that might confirm any other traitors. We can be ready to exit in five.” Carter outlined his plan, but it only got them out of the warehouse and on the road.

“Marksman, you got anybody that can hide us?” the colonel asked.

“Maybe.” Marksman commed.

“Can we trust them?”

“Hell no. But they all speak the same language. Money. As long as we can talk in those terms, I can get us a place.”

“Carter, get us out of this damn warehouse. I'm calling the vans in four minutes. Marksman, once we're moving, you make it happen.”

Carter dropped his head back and gazed at the ceiling, hands down at his sides. The stairwell above appeared as if he was looking up from the bottom of a well. He felt short of breath, as if someone had taken all the oxygen out of the air. He wanted to run up into the dim light at the top. His fingers shook and his refractured knuckle throbbed. He clenched his fists, then released. Walking back to Amin, he emptied the third syringe into his arm. “It'll take the edge off.”

Captain Richards and Dr. Ali ran into the bunker. Dr. Ali looked at Amin's face, then at the KA-BAR sticking out of his foot, and back at Carter.

“Patch him upstairs, doc. No arteries. Only puncture wounds.” The doctor glowered as he and Richards humped Amin up the stairs, still strapped to his chair.

* * *

Red studied Carter as he stood next to the wooden table, rubbing a swollen knuckle. In terms of tactical interrogations, the man had just performed heart surgery. So this was the reason Jim had put him on the op. Red put a hand on Carter's shoulder. “You okay?”

The detective smiled. “Yeah. I'm not proud of it, but I always get what I ask for.”

“Looks like you took it easy on me that night after Walmart.”

Carter laughed. “I thought about doing the dagger routine, but the sheriff shut me down.”

Lori grabbed an AK-47 from the dead lieutenant's grasp. She rolled him over and stripped off his ammo belt. Who the hell was she? Where'd she learn her skills? The move on Amin's arm, shooting the guards, all that was close quarters combat. She'd been trained. But by who? Was he supposed to remember? Why hadn't she told him? Was she some sort of schizophrenic Jekyll and Hyde?

Lori held out Amin's pistol. “Recognize it?”

Red lifted it from her palm. “My old sidearm. That'll make Gunny happy, when I bring it back.”

“Like hell you say.” She snatched it from his grasp and shoved it behind the ammo belt around her waist. “Finders keepers.”

B
oth blue-painted doors on the far wall of the underground bunker stood shut. Lori had said they were empty, but Red knew he should clear them anyway, even if to only catch them on video from the tiny camera atop his helmet. He twisted a silver handle and scanned inside the first room. Inside was sparse, only a few empty metal coffee cans stacked in a corner, shiny red labels half-eaten by rust. He peered inside the other. It was empty, too, but a slanted crack in the concrete wall had a deep orange water stain running down from it. The same stain he'd seen in the background of the video in Jim's office.

He turned back. Lori was standing with her foot on the neck of a dead guard, the one with the scar. She checked the holes in the back of a clip, then shoved it into her ammo belt.

“You sure you're okay. Not hurt?” Red asked.

She smiled. “No. A couple bruises, and I smell worse than you. That's all.”

He grabbed her arms and locked her gaze, to make sure it was the truth. “Anyone touch you?”

She pulled free and shoved a magazine into the bottom of the AK. “No. Well, almost. One tried, but a German guy put a stop to it.”

“Who was he?”

“The trafficker. Then, while I was here, Amin never left me alone. He's gay.”

Red grinned. “Why? Because he didn't come on to you?”

“Pretty much.” She laughed. “Or it could be the way he looked at
this
guy.” She kicked the shoulder of the dead guard.

“You gotta help me out. Why didn't I know you were a tag? And where'd you learn those moves? Why haven't you told me any of this?”

She marched toward the stairs. “Later. Trust me for now. Gotta get moving.”

He followed her up. The pink pajamas hung from her shoulders, brown stains running down her back. Her hips swayed as she adjusted the ammo belt at the first landing. “What about—” He stopped. She might not take a sexual innuendo very well right now, even if he was only trying to lighten the mood.

“What about what?” she asked, twisting the strap.

He looked past her, up the stairs. “What about you hurry up.”

She smirked and shoved his chest. “Whatever. Don't think you got away with it.” She ran upstairs.

Jim rallied the team near a door, then called for pickup. Marksman put a shoulder into Crawler's gut and scooped him up in a fireman's carry, staggering under the weight. Crawler hung limp. Jim and Carter stood next to Amin, still strapped in his chair with copper wire, strips of green fabric tied around his legs to stem the blood flow. His head hung low. The rest of the team lay down on the cement inside the door. The cold from the floor tensed Red's legs. They were supposed to be feigning death. Hard to do when you're shivering. What a lousy plan. But Carter claimed the ruse had worked before. Red hoped these drivers were stupid enough to fall for it.

The grind of worn brakes came from outside. Marksman heaved a deep breath and pushed through the door, wheeling like a top spinning down. The door closed behind him, scraping the floor as it went like the call of a seagull. Marksman yelled something indecipherable. The crunch of gravel under feet, the scrape of the door again, and Red squinted as four men in plainclothes came through.

Two had baseball caps, one bright red with a Coke logo. They ran to Ali, picked him up, and carried him toward the door. The other two stopped when they saw Amin, then took a step back.

“Noam?” Carter drew his sidearm.

They looked at each other, and ran back to the door. They flung it open and met the barrels of Crawler and Marksman trained at their chests. Red jumped up and blocked the aisle as they turned toward it. One of them, tall and wiry, almost pushed past Lanyard, but a blow to the groin had him sucking wind. Crawler handed Lanyard FlexiCuffs and bound the prisoner's wrists and ankles, then duct-taped their mouths.

Ali squirmed and the drivers with baseball caps dropped him. They yelled at each other.

“Marksman, get them to shut up. We need to get moving.” Jim said.

Lori interpreted as Marksman spoke. The drivers thought they were being double-crossed. The one with the Coke cap wore pressed jeans and a shiny brown leather jacket. He jerked off his hat and shoved Marksman backwards. Crawler stepped closer, but Marksman continued to speak calmly. The other came near as well, talking loudly, one eye wandering as he spoke. The conversation grew louder and Marksman raised his hands, waving them in a
calm down
motion. The one with a lazy eye took a swing at him, but Crawler stepped in and punched him in the gut so hard he puked.

“Crawler!” Marksman yelled. “We need these guys on our side.”

The one in the leather jacket spat in Crawler's face as the other retched on the floor.

Jim jumped in front and aimed Crawler toward the middle of the warehouse. “Over there. Keep an eye on the other doors.”

Crawler looked down at Jim with pursed lips, wiping the spit from his eyebrow. “Yes, sir.”

Red had asked Jim back in the hanger whether Crawler was still taking anger-management classes. Jim had said, “Nope. I pulled him. I like him better that way.”

A few more minutes of heated back-and-forth, then voices calmed as Marksman pointed toward the other two drivers, bound and sitting on the floor. The one with the lazy eye stood holding his gut, yelling as he motioned toward the door.

“He's telling us to load up,” Marksman said. “But he says they'll be looking for the vans now. We'll have to steal something along the way.”

Crawler's New York accent echoed from across the warehouse, “Why not switch 'em out now?” Red glanced at Jim, then ran to where Crawler stood next to the two troop transports.

“These're in good shape,” Crawler said. “I tapped the tanks and they're full up. I can hotwire 'em, then put a fifteen-minute detonator on these rocket boxes. This place will go up higher than a daisy cutter. They'll think they got hit with a tactical nuke. Won't be nothin' left to see their trucks are gone. Leave the vans outside, douse 'em with gas, and maybe the hadjis will think we went up in the blast. We can put a couple dead guys in the vans in our gear so's they find their burnt carcasses. May buy us a little time.”

Marksman lifted an eyebrow. “Come up with that yourself? You're gonna blow an aneurism.”

“Make it happen,” Jim snapped.

Crawler slung his rifle and lifted the hood of the first truck. Marksman peered into the window of the other, opened the door, and got in. It turned over, fired up, and Marksman stuck his bald head out the door. “The keys are in the ignition, idiot, but you can still hotwire it if you want.” He ducked back inside as a pair of pliers flew and struck the rearview mirror, spraying broken glass to the floor.

Jim grinned, punching his comm. “Crawler and Marksman, go downstairs and bring up those bodies. Marksman, get in one of their uniforms. Lori, you, too. You'll be riding up front with the drivers. Look Iranian. Cut your hair, smudge your face, whatever. Crawler, set detonators for thirty minutes. We need more distance before they come looking for us. Richards, get out to the rock pile, position Victor. You're lookout till we're rolling.” He pointed to the far corner. “Ali, get those fuel tanks over there leaking. I want this floor coated by the time we leave. Red and Lanyard, get the two bodies from the mezzanine and strip 'em down.” Jim kicked the head of the dead guard lying at the end of the aisle, the one missing a hand. “Lori, tell the drivers to strip these guys down and get into their uniforms.”

Red ran up the mezzanine stairs, pausing at the top. He didn't want to get the kid, but couldn't make Lanyard do it, either. He reached down to grab the boy's shoulders but stopped, hands shaking, hovering above the glossy white box pooled with blood. The head was down, body slumped over it. One time at the Air Force Academy he'd fallen asleep on his footlocker while shining shoes. An upperclassman found him slumped over it like this kid, brush in hand. He and his roommate had paid for that in hazing for a week.

Lanyard grunted behind him and a rifle slapped the floor. Red glanced back. Lanyard had his guard over his shoulder, reaching down to grab his AK-47. Red inhaled, closed his eyes, grabbed the kid, and slung him over his shoulder as well. His arms hung limp against the backs of Red's thighs. Urine had soaked his pants, dampening the shoulder of Red's body armor. He breathed through his mouth, but the mixed scent of Kevlar, sweat, and urine made him want to retch. He swallowed it down as he descended the stairs. The bowed step cracked under his weight. He lurched forward, nearly falling down the rest.

Marksman and Crawler placed the other two bodies behind the second truck, breathing heavily from toting them up from the bunker. Someone had already pulled over the one-handed guard, leaving his lost limb back in the aisle. Red stooped and shrugged the kid off his shoulders, shuddering. There were five bodies now, lying like cordwood. He could see them all, except for the kid's face. He forced himself to look. It was the least he could do. The kid was still smiling.

Red looked up and breathed deeply. Diesel fumes mixed with gasoline from the draining tanks. Both drivers stepped onto the running boards and looked inside the cabs. The one with the lazy eye was half a foot taller. He jumped down, patted his own chest, and said something in Farsi to Marksman.

“This guy with the broken eyeball calls himself Salar,” Marksman said. “Shorter one is Navid.”

Salar walked to the front of the truck, then motioned for Jim to follow. Red came, too. Salar spoke rapidly, stroking a plate riveted onto the bumper, the outline of two green squares with a globe in the middle.

“Says the emblem on the bumper is a special unit,” Marksman said. “I can't make out which one. He thinks it might get us through checkpoints. Says we should put this truck up front.”

Jim cleared his throat. “Either that or he's setting us up. You know the language. Can we trust him?”

“With that eye jumping around like a one-legged grasshopper? All I want is to smack the back of his head, straighten it out.”

Jim walked to the rear of the first truck, smiling. He commed in, “Fireball in thirty. Exit in five. Ali, make sure we can get the overhead doors open.” He patted the liftgate on the back of the truck. “Everyone else, put a row of crates at the front and another at the back of the beds. It'll be empty in the middle. That's where we'll ride.” He pointed to a pile of green canvas. “Pull one of those tarps over the whole thing for cover.”

Red slapped Lanyard's shoulder and ran down one of the aisles, to some wooden crates the size of footlockers.

“What's wrong with these?” Lanyard asked, kicking the bottom of a stack of flat ones.

“Rockets of some sort, I think. When shooting breaks out, I don't want them getting hit.”

At the end of the aisle Red grabbed one end of a small crate, light yellow and unsplintered, smelling of fresh sawdust. “This one looks like their MREs.” They stacked two dozen of them in the beds and cinched them tight with wide ratchet tie-downs. The only way to get into the middle was by lowering the bed's side panel.

Red put the last tug on a strap and turned as Lori stepped out of the next aisle. Judging by the blood on her cuff, she was in the uniform of the one-handed guard. A beige beret was pulled over her hair. She'd chopped some off, but the fullness of the beret suggested she'd tucked most of it underneath. Brown camo paint was thinly smeared over her face and hands. He had to get her home. But who was she now?

There'd be plenty of time for that later.
Let your mind go and you'll get yourself killed,
he thought. The goal, the mission, getting her home. That was the only thing that was real now.

Lori slung an AK-47 over one shoulder and jogged over. The closer she got, the worse the picture.

“How do I look?” she asked.

He grimaced. “Like hell.”

Lori glared. “Okay, this is the one time you get to say that.”

“I'm not joking. You look like Shania Twain in camo and a bad haircut. I've seen Mexicans that look more Iranian. Plus, Artesh doesn't have women grunts. You can't ride up front.”

She looked down at her chest, then pulled more of the blouse out of her ammo belt. “Jim wants someone to keep a close ear on the drivers. Marksman's taking the first one.”

“But you said you don't know much Farsi.”

“Still more than anyone else.”

Red pulled hard on the ratchet handle, producing a
crack
from one of the crates. “You may be okay at night, but any hadji gets within twenty feet, I'm shooting the bastard. You do the same. Hear me?”

She tilted her chin. “I'll keep my eyes open.”

“That goes for the driver, too. He's getting paid to betray his country.” Red looked at Crawler lifting Amin into the back of the second truck. “This whole thing is out of control. We should leave Amin and the other drivers here. Take ours and head out.”

“What did Jim say?”

“Can't. Mossad wants them, and we'll need Mossad before the day's out. At least if we left them here, it'd be a painless death. With Mossad, it'll be long and nasty.”

Lori stepped onto the running board. “You think too much. Just be sure they don't make any noise back there.” She caught Jim's eye, gave him a thumbs-up, then slid across into the passenger seat.

Red squeezed under the musty green tarp in back. He grabbed hold of one of the crates at the end of the bed and shook. It creaked, but the stack stood firm. He scooted toward the front and his feet hit Amin, lying on the floor, eyes closed. Red knelt and put a hand over the prisoner's nose and mouth. Nothing happened. Whatever Carter had given the guy must be stronger than he'd said. Amin wouldn't be making any noise.