Renegade (2013) (16 page)

“Inbound. Should be here any minute.”

The action on the street had intensified. Al Qaeda warriors had swarmed the Humvees, drawn to the Marine vehicles like flies to an ice cream social. Rounds screamed along the alley, ricocheting from the building walls.

Pike knew rounding the corner even behind the shelter of the Humvees was going to be risky. He paused at a doorway in the alley thirty feet from the corner and tried the doorknob. It was locked.

“Coming through the back door.”

“Affirmative. We have not cleared that area.”

“Roger that.” Stepping back from the door, Pike rammed his boot twice beside the lock before the door splintered and gave way. He rushed into the gloomy shadows that filled the building.

The building had been a laundry at one time. Ancient machines covered in rust lined the walls and filled the center of the open area. Several of the units were in pieces, scattered across other washers—evidently the work of scavengers. Laundry bags lay in disarray, all of them picked over. Everything in the room had been burned, and the air remained thick with the stink of old smoke. Pike didn’t know if
the building was the site of a bombing or if the area had gone up in flames through the predations of an arsonist. All that was left was ruins.

He went forward, jogging through the debris. He pulled up the scarf around his neck to cover his mouth and nose so he wouldn’t suck up too much dust and ash. The fabric blunted the smoke stench only somewhat.

The door at the end of the room had charred but hadn’t burned down. Pike figured a fire brigade had arrived in time, or maybe the plumbing had saved what was left of the room. Scorch marks and smoke damage webbed the walls. The fire had eaten through the roof and laid bare the electrical wires, which looked leprous without their protective coating in many places.

Pike smashed his foot into the door and it shuddered open, revealing three al Qaeda warriors in the hallway. They’d evidently been creeping toward Bekah’s position. Less than four feet away, the tangos shook off their surprise and started lifting their weapons.

Knowing Cho was behind him and any kind of retreat would leave them flat-footed—and that exchanging shots in the hallway wasn’t in his favor—Pike lowered his head and charged. His helmet caught the lead tango in the face, breaking his nose. Pike kept driving, digging in with his combat boots, bulling the man’s weight backward into the next man.

Levering his left hand up between them, Pike gripped the smaller man’s clothing in his fist, headbutted him again, and lifted the M4A1 into firing position. The al Qaeda warrior behind the first man opened fire, striking his own man in his fear.

Pike fired two three-round bursts into the shooter’s chest, then bulldozed the two men again. The first man took down the second, leaving them both tangled on the ground.

The third al Qaeda warrior opened fire, but Pike ducked and
threw himself forward, propelling off the bodies of the first two men, feeling them give beneath his weight. He struck the last tango in the stomach, driving the man to the ground. Rising to his knees, still astride his enemy, Pike ripped his KA-BAR free of his combat harness, gripped it tightly, and plunged it into the man’s neck.

Breathing hard from the exertion and from the adrenaline thundering through him, Pike stood in the gloom and surveyed the dead men. He gripped his M4A1, then unclipped his flashlight and directed the beam through the hallway. At the end of the run, the corridor twisted to the right, probably leading to units on the other side of the building.

“Pike?” Gunshots punctuated Bekah’s transmission.

“On our way. Ran into rats in the walls.” Pike put his flashlight away and walked back to the doorway that led to the section where he guessed Bekah and Zeke had holed up. He opened the door, grateful that it opened easily enough with a squeal of rusty hinges, and resentful because it didn’t offer much in the way of protection. Several splintered holes in the surface that let light through underscored its weakness.

Pike and Cho stepped through into another section of the building that had been a shop of some kind, probably a grocery store. Empty shelves lined the walls, but empty cans and boxes that had once contained foodstuffs were among the debris littered over the floor. Posters advertising products occupied some of the wall space.

Bekah and Zeke stood at the doorway, firing unevenly. Bekah called out orders to the green Marine, managing the rhythm of suppressive fire as much as she was able.

Pike paused just long enough to find a broken board and ram it under the interior door’s edge so that anyone trying to get into the room would have a hard time and his team would at least have some kind of warning before that happened. Of course, shooting through the door remained just as easy.

“Cho. On me.” Pike advanced to the empty space at the front of the shop that had once been occupied by a large plate-glass window. He waved Cho to the right side, setting up on the left and pulling the M4A1 to his shoulder.

The al Qaeda fighters had concentrated their efforts on the Marine vehicles. Drawn by the scent of blood, certain of their place in heaven for dying in their jihad, they came on. Pike counted at least seven of them as he snapped off shots to break an advance across the street. Snipers still occupied the upper floors of buildings across the street, adding to the danger.

Movement at the end of the street to Pike’s right drew his attention to the three Marine Humvees rolling into the area. Fifty-cal machine gunners on the Humvees’ rear decks took aim, and the heavy-caliber fire pealed along the street.

Still, the sniper nests along the buildings on the other side of the street remained dangerous. Pike hated the idea that the Marines were headed into that deadly line of fire. He pulled back from the window.

Bekah keyed her radio. “Indigo teams, be advised that you have snipers in buildings on the west side of the street.” She shifted as she spoke, trying to elevate her weapon to target the snipers. Even then, the 5.56mm rounds weren’t going to do much damage unless she hit the tangos. “Hold your positions or you’re going to roll into them.”

Pike tapped Bekah on the shoulder. “Cover me.”

She glanced at him, worry etched into her face. “Where are you going? Heath’s out there.”

Heath? Not Lieutenant Bridger?
The casual reference didn’t surprise Pike. He’d picked up on some of the undercurrent of attraction between Bekah and the lieutenant when they were together in Somalia. He was surprised she had gotten so at ease with the officer because they came from different worlds. There was scuttlebutt up
and down the grapevine that Heath Bridger had done some legal work for her in civilian life, but nothing more.

Pike nodded and brushed sweat from his eyebrows, not surprised that his hand came away stained with blood. “I know. And if they keep coming, they’re gonna roll right under those enemy guns. I’m gonna even up the odds a little.”

“How?”

Hunkered behind Bekah, Pike nodded at the Humvees. “I’m gonna grab one of those fifties and chase those snipers back into their holes.”

“You can’t go out there.”

“I’m going. I need you to keep them ducking.” Then Pike was in motion, staying low and running for all he was worth.

WHEN THE ELEVATOR STOPPED
at the third floor, Yaqub stepped out of the cage with his pistol at the ready. Two Westerners, a man and a woman, halted in the hallway and gazed at him with glassy eyes. Neither of them was Jonathan Sebastian. Before they could move, Yaqub shot them both and walked past their bodies.

He glanced at the numbers as he passed them, finding room 317 two more doors ahead. Stopping beside the door, he waved to Wali.

The younger man moved forward, tried the lock, and shook his head. He stepped back and lowered his pistol, firing three rounds into the mechanism. Metal pieces dropped to the floor. Before the sounds of the silenced shots faded, Wali threw his shoulder against the door and followed it inside.

Yaqub trailed on the young warrior’s heels, scanning the room immediately.

Frozen in surprise, Jonathan Sebastian sat on the bed’s edge. The man was in his late forties, an industry legend in international news. He had made his name covering the first war in Iraq over twenty years ago. That long history and the name recognition Sebastian enjoyed as a journalist were what had drawn Yaqub to the man, though he radiated a sense of pompous self-worth that Yaqub found repugnant. His hair was perfectly coiffed, and Yaqub knew from the information
he had on the reporter that Sebastian had allowed himself to go gray because the vain man believed it would give him even more appeal to his viewers. The reporter was lean and in shape, and Yaqub knew that he had a personal trainer. He wore suit trousers and went barefoot. His tie hung at half-mast and his suit coat lay on the bed within easy reach.

Another man stood at the window watching the curling black smoke coming from the city. He was half Sebastian’s age, smaller, and looked immediately frightened. He held a small digital camera and had evidently been taking pictures of the destruction.

Wali kept his weapon at the ready as he went forward and quickly searched both men for weapons.

Yaqub lowered the Makarov. “Jonathan Sebastian.”

“Yes.” Sebastian looked scared and confused.

A trace of pride sailed through Yaqub at the other man’s reaction. It was good to incite fear in one’s enemies, but it was even better to do so to the people who spread the news. “Do you know who I am?”

Sebastian glanced at the other man, who had taken a cowering step back till he reached the wall. He stood there, obviously wishing he were anywhere else.

“He’s Zalmai Yaqub, sir.” The man’s voice broke.

Sebastian nodded as he turned toward Yaqub. “I met you when you were a boy.”

“I am no longer a boy.”

“I interviewed your father, you know. Back when such a thing was still possible. Before the CIA strike.”

“So I was told. My father remembers you well. He will be pleased to see you again.”

“I thought your father was dead.”

“No. Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”

“Where?”

“To the biggest story you have ever covered. One that will build your career even more than it already is.”

Sebastian sat still. “What if I don’t want to go?”

“You don’t have a choice. Get up. Put your clothes on or I’ll have someone dress you. We don’t have time for them to be gentle.”

Reluctantly Sebastian stood. His face didn’t reveal anything, but the man had to be factoring in his chances for rescue. “You can’t just take me. Somebody like me, someone will come looking.”

“I know. I am counting on that. If you do not come with me, I will kill you and find someone else to relay this story. I would prefer you, but I refuse to argue. I do not have time.” Yaqub shifted the Makarov in his hand meaningfully. “Neither do you.”

Sebastian put on his shoes and picked up his coat. He nodded to the younger man. “What about Kimball?”

“He will not be joining us.”

Kimball appeared relieved, almost sagging with the emotion.

“He’s my cameraman.”

Yaqub smiled at the American, conscious of the time slipping away. By now the attack on the hotel would have been reported. With all the action already transpiring in the city, a military force might even now be on its way.

“I have cameramen.” Yaqub turned to Kimball. “You have a camera.”

The man looked at the device as if it had somehow betrayed him. “Yes.” He had to clear his throat to get that out.

Yaqub stood beside Sebastian. “Take our picture.”

Hesitantly the man lifted the camera and tried to hold it steady. His hands trembled violently, but he managed to take the shot.

“Another.”

The man triggered the camera once more.

Yaqub held out his hand. “Please. Give the camera to me.”

Still shaking, the man placed the camera in Yaqub’s palm. Yaqub stepped back and nodded to Wali.

Adjusting the machine pistol he carried, alerting the American enough to make him raise his hands in his own defense, Wali sprayed him with bullets.

Sebastian cursed hoarsely, but there was no anger in his words, only a raspy fear and the understanding that his life was no longer his own. Fearfully he stared at Yaqub.

“Let us go.” The al Qaeda leader placed the camera on the desk in the corner of the room, where it would be found during the subsequent investigation, then turned and headed through the doorway into the hall. Wali pushed the journalist into motion and followed.

Yaqub crossed the parking area without incident. He spotted some of the journalists hiding on the premises, talking on satellite phones and taking pictures or videos with their devices. Yaqub didn’t care.

He stepped into the back of the SUV while Wali shoved Sebastian into the other side of the vehicle. Yaqub kept the Makarov in his lap and gazed out the window.

“What do you want with me?” Sebastian’s fear almost shredded his words.

“You have an important job ahead of you. You are going to be my chronicler, Mr. Sebastian.” Yaqub turned to the man and smiled. “You should be very grateful. The story you are about to reveal to the world is going to make you legendary in your circles. Your name—the things you will host—will always be remembered in your country.”

“What are you talking about?”

The driver started the SUV and put the vehicle into gear.

“The Americans killed Osama bin Laden. He built al Qaeda into the force that it is, ignited the fire of jihad against the West, but
no one has done as much since his death. My people need a champion, and I intend to give them one. I intend to be that champion. I am going to pick up that holy war and drive the infidels from Afghanistan while they linger in their indecision and growing weakness. Then I am going to attack them in their homelands. Since bin Laden’s death, many have gone into hiding, but they still strike in this country. They are largely ineffectual because they are separate in their efforts. I will unite them, forge them into the weapon that God intended them to be. They will see what I am capable of, and they will flock to me. Blood will run in rivers in Afghanistan.” As he spoke, the certainty of his future and his calling swelled inside Yaqub. God had called him forth to do this. His father had told him that, and now he believed it to be true.

Sebastian shook his head. “You’re painting a target on yourself. The military will hunt you down the way they did bin Laden.”

“No.” Yaqub’s voice exploded out of him, and he strove to control his anger. He wanted to slit the throat of the man for voicing doubt in front of his followers. It took effort to remember that he needed the man. “No, that will not happen. The West has grown sicker of this war than they are afraid of al Qaeda. I will teach them to fear the jihad again. Already many Afghans are turning against them. There will be more. The American president will see how much it will cost to continue this war. He will pull the troops from Afghanistan, and I will consolidate the warriors who will follow me.”

“You won’t get the Pentagon to back off.”

“I will. The Pentagon does not lose its sons. The American people do, and they have no stomach for a continuance of the war. Allies of the American effort are withdrawing. Already the Americans have overstepped themselves in Pakistan by putting illegal CIA bases in that country. They have undone political alliances there. The Russians are furious with the Americans and British for allowing the opium
trade to continue among the warlords they have agreements with, because the drugs are pouring into their country. No one is happy with the way the Americans are conducting this war these days—with the deals they are making—and the effects transgress the borders of this country. I will further discourage them. They are weak. They will give in.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

“By killing their soldiers. Every corpse that goes home to a grieving Western family is a butcher’s bill for the cost of this war.” Yaqub shook his head. “Our young are raised to be warriors. They willingly give their lives in our holy war because they know the rewards they will reap in heaven. They believe in
fard al-’ayn
, the personal obligation of the Muslim man to God. Your countrymen do not surrender themselves so enthusiastically.”

Sebastian said nothing.

“That is why al Qaeda will win. That is why I will win.”

The driver took evasive action without warning.

Glancing forward, Yaqub spotted two ANP pickups speeding toward them. The driver had shifted to allow the Afghan police passage on the street. At first Yaqub thought they might escape unnoticed, but the pickups quickly turned around, throwing out rooster tails of dirt as they reversed direction.

The PA on one of the trucks blared out orders in Pashto behind them. “You there! Stop!” The command was repeated in English, French, and Arabic.

Shifting in his seat, Yaqub watched as the SUV behind the one he was riding in braked and slowed down. The driver wove back and forth across the street, keeping the ANP vehicles behind him. The man operating the 7.62mm machine gun mounted on the rear deck of the lead ANP truck opened fire. Bullets struck the SUV, shattering the rear glass and splashing blood inside the vehicle.

The driver jerked the wheel and managed to bring the SUV to a rocky stop sideways in the narrow street, blocking both ANP pickups. The machine gunners aboard the two trucks opened their weapons full throttle as their drivers pulled into overlapping fields of fire.

Two al Qaeda warriors stumbled out of the SUV, taking advantage of the protection offered by their vehicle but already in dire straits. One of them hauled out an RPG, then lay on the ground and brought the weapon to his shoulder under the SUV. An instant later, the warhead streaked away and smashed into the pickup on the right. The ANP vehicle bucked up a couple feet, like a horse trying to rear on its hind legs, then crashed back down. The blast left the front end smashed and warped, and gray smoke wisped from the vehicle.

The surviving machine gunner laid down a vicious strafing attack that chewed through the pavement and tracked back to the al Qaeda warrior scrambling to get out from under the SUV. Bullets ripped him apart before he could take cover. His body quivered and went still beneath the vehicle.

The second ANP pickup skirted the first, then turned down an alley to the left.

Wali calmly tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Take the next alley to the left. They are coming up the side street in an effort to intercept us on the next cross street ahead.”

A feeling of ease dawned inside Yaqub. Wali was a master of terrain and always planned out their missions.

The driver nodded and braked the SUV. Then he turned the vehicle sharply and headed into the alley as instructed. The vehicle ahead of them continued forward, following the path they had chosen in anticipation of the kidnapping.

Yaqub sat quietly, trusting Wali because he guessed what the younger warrior was planning. It was a daring move and not without
risk. He took pride in the young man, wishing more like him would join his ranks. Eventually they would.

The mouth of the alley came closer.

“Now.” Wali readied his AK-47 and peered ahead. “Turn right. Quickly,
quickly
.”

Obeying, the driver hauled the wheel to the right. The acceleration caused the SUV to skid; then the tires found purchase again. The heavy vehicle rocked on its suspension for a moment, then straightened out.

Ahead of them, the ANP pickup rounded the next corner at the cross street.

“Quickly.” Wali kept the AK-47 in one hand and placed his free hand on his seat belt release. “Turn the corner. Go after them. Ram them from behind when you can. Do you hear me?”

“I hear.” The driver hauled on the steering wheel again, turning the SUV sharply.

On the cross street, the ANP pulled to a halt at the corner as the lead SUV flashed by. The driver of that vehicle had slowed, doubtless looking for Yaqub’s SUV. The machine gunner on the pickup’s rear deck hesitated but tracked the first SUV with his weapon.

“Ram them.
Now
!
” Wali braced his feet against the floor.

Yaqub braced himself as well and held on to the Makarov.

The SUV’s front end was reinforced with rebar welded over the bumper to protect the engine. When the two vehicles slammed into each other, the SUV’s greater weight knocked the ANP pickup forward. On the rear deck, the machine gunner staggered, then held on to the weapon in an effort not to get knocked over the side. Not so lucky, his companion spilled into the street.