Sea of Crises (29 page)

He turned to look just as Dacoff reached a hand up over the decorative woodwork lining the top of a china cabinet. There was a sudden loud bang, and Dacoff jerked his arm back. Only half of it came, however, and he stood there, dumbfounded, looking down at the point where his arm now ended in a jagged stump near the elbow. Blood began pooling at the man’s feet.

An explosion ripped through the second floor, and a moment later, the agent Dacoff had ordered upstairs appeared, staggering toward the head of the stairway, face bloodied, a gaping hole in his chest. His body struck the newel post, spun and came tumbling down the stairs, landing in a disorderly heap near the bottom, lifeless eyes staring out of a head that now lolled back at an unnatural angle.

“Out of the house,” Raen yelled. “Now.”

He pointed to the prisoners. “Bring that one,” he said, indicating Peter Cartwright and looking at the agent who’d been standing guard. The man nodded, slung his weapon and reached down. He put a hand under one of Peter Cartwright’s armpits and began dragging him toward the front door. Raen selected one of the women, a redhead, and did the same, following the other operative out the door.

He deposited the woman in the dirt next to Cartwright and turned just as Dacoff stumbled out and collapsed on the stoop.

The older agent from Boston materialized out of the darkness surrounding the cabin. He punched a finger toward a stand of trees near the rear of the structure, then at Dacoff. Another agent emerged from the shadows and hurried over to the fallen figure, crouching down over him. The older agent turned to Raen with a questioning look.

“The bastard’s got the place rigged,” Raen said through gritted teeth. “He’s controlling the damn things remotely.”

Another explosion shattered the evening silence, and there was a cry of pain from the darkness.

Jesus Christ, Raen thought. We’re on his turf here. We need a better defensive position. He made a snap decision. He pulled the communicator from his pocket and keyed the microphone. “Hammer One to team,” he said, using the code word for the mission. “Back to the vehicles.”

Raen holstered his pistol, then pointed to the M-16 in the hands of the agent guarding the two prisoners sprawled in the dirt. The agent wordlessly handed the weapon to him. Both of the prisoners were straining to look up at him, eyes wide with panic. His hands on the barrel and upper grip, Raen raised the rifle and slammed the butt of the stock into the back of Cartwright’s head. The man’s eyes rolled up and his face slumped in the dirt.

He pointed a finger at the terrified woman. “Give me any trouble, and I’ll do the same to you.” He handed the rifle back to his agent, unsheathed his knife and cut the bindings on Cartwright’s ankles and wrists. Then he leaned down and lifted up the unconscious body, slinging him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

“Move,” he ordered, and he began running toward the vehicles they’d concealed in the underbrush about a quarter of a mile up the private lane.

They had come in two Suburbans. By the time Raen reached the spot, his men had cleared away the camouflaging brush and had pulled both vehicles out into the lane, facing in the direction of the highway, engines running, but lights still off. The rear door on the trailing Suburban was open, and he threw Cartwright’s body into the back.

“Assemble at Rally Point Bravo,” Raen called out, stepping to his right and looking forward. One of his men standing by the side of the first Suburban raised a hand in acknowledgement. Then he opened the passenger’s side door and slipped into the vehicle, pulling the door shut. The driver put the first car in gear and started forward. Raen had a sudden thought, and he’d just opened his mouth in what he realized belatedly was a futile gesture to warn when the vehicle was suddenly engulfed in a brilliant fireball, the blast from the explosion catching Raen flush against the front of his body and hurling him backwards.

When he hit the ground, he instinctively rolled to the side. As he did, a gunshot rang out, and he sensed a bullet thudding into the earth at the very spot he’d landed. He heard the faint whine of the spent projectile as it ricocheted over him. He continued rolling until he encountered brush and dropped down slightly into a shallow furrow by the side of the lane. He pulled out his .45 and, staying low to the ground, backed his way further into the foliage until he was confident he could not be seen. Then he raised himself into a crouch and, staying low, began working in the direction of the cabin, eyes focused on the lane and the woods beyond.

From the darkness the figure of the agent carrying the still-bound female prisoner over one shoulder emerged into the glow cast by the burning Suburban. There was the crack of another shot, and the man’s legs buckled. He pitched forward and the woman’s body was thrown clear. As he tumbled to the ground, the man gripped the M-16 slung on his shoulder and in one motion brought it around and up in a firing position, a smooth and well-practiced maneuver. It did him no good, however, as the back of his head exploded at the sound of the next shot, and his body crumpled to the ground.

Suddenly, there were shots from the direction of the cabin, and Raen realized that the remaining members of his team were returning fire. Good. He took quick stock of the situation. In addition to the man who’d just been shot, there had been at least two agents plus Dacoff behind him. And, he thought, there should have been at least one man in the undamaged Suburban. He glanced back and saw that, indeed, one of his men had crawled out the passenger side of the car and was hunkered down next to it, using the vehicle as a shield, gun at the ready.

As he watched, though, there was a quick three shot burst from the other side of the lane and the man crouching by the Suburban jerked, his body twisting awkwardly. Then the man fell to the ground, writhing in apparent pain. Another shot, and the man abruptly stopped moving, obviously taken out by fire directed under the vehicle.

More shots from the woods across the lane told Raen that his men were advancing on the shooter, laying down disciplined fire in that direction. At least one of the men, he knew, would be executing an enveloping movement. The shooter would have to withdraw toward the public highway unless, of course, he tried to cross the lane. If he did, Raen was ready to take him down from his position. And the shooter would know it.

No, he knew, Marek would have to reposition down the lane. In fact, if he hadn’t started by now, it might be too late. Out of an abundance of caution, Raen stayed where he was for another minute, alert for movement in the lane, listening as the shots from his men in the woods across from him advanced past his position. They were hewing closely to protocol. When he was confident they had the shooter on the run, he darted from the brush. The woman his operative had been carrying was lying face down in the roadway. She had long hair tied in a pony tail. He reached out, grabbed her hair, and roughly dragged her back into the brush, where he dropped her and resumed an alert stance.

The sound of gunshots stopped and was replaced by a silence that was profound in contrast. He again retrieved the communicator.

“Hammer One. Report.”

After a long pause, he heard, softly, “Hammer Five. Found the shooter’s nest. He’s flown.”

“Hammer Seven,” came a second voice. “He didn’t come east.”

It meant that, as Raen had suspected, Marek had withdrawn toward the highway.

“What about Hammer Two?” Raen asked, referring to Dacoff.

“Here,” the man’s voice replied weakly, “with Five.”

Good man, Raen thought. He’d had half an arm blown off and was still functioning tactically. “Anyone else?”

From the speaker of the communicator came nothing but silence. They were down to four men and one of them was badly injured. Shit. Raen toggled the frequency on his communicator. “Hammer One to Tool Box.”

“Tool Box, go ahead,” came the immediate reply.

“I have eight, repeat, eight men down. I need reinforcements immediately.”

There was a long pause. Raen could only imagine the impact this report had on those at the other end. There would be hell to pay later. Well, he thought, what do you expect? It’s Marek, goddamn it.

Finally, the reply came. “Thunderbird is on the way with six assets. ETA twenty-five minutes. More to come. Please confirm rally point.”

“Rally Point Alpha,” Raen said quickly. The helicopter would be setting the additional men down at the cabin. They’d have to rappel from the hovering craft. Not optimal, but necessary.

“I’ll need further backup at Rally Points Bravo and Delta,” Raen continued. “I am without vehicles.” Raen knew he couldn’t use the remaining Suburban. He was certain Marek had also planted a charge in that car. The only reason it hadn’t been detonated to this point was because the unconscious Peter Cartwright was lying in the rear of the thing.

“Roger Hammer One. That’s going to take a bit longer. Will advise. Out.”

Raen stared at the silent communicator for a moment. Yeah, ok, he said to himself finally. He’d have probably had the same reaction. This operation was not going well. Goddamn you, Marek.

He switched frequencies. “Hammer One to team. Draw back to Rally Point Alpha. Pick up the prisoner from the back of the Suburban.”

A series of clicks sounded as his men keyed their microphones in acknowledgement.

He looked down at the bound figure of the woman lying beside him. She was on her back. In the darkness, he couldn’t really make out her expression, but the terror he’d seen earlier seemed to have dissipated. All right, he said to himself. We’ll do this the hard way.

He leaned down. “Remember what I told you,” he said softly, reaching for the KA-BAR knife he kept in a sheath strapped to his lower leg. He withdrew the weapon, bringing it slowly around and passing it near her face, where he knew she’d be able to see it in the diffuse moonlight. He set the blade against the plastic restraint between her ankles and severed it with a quick slice.

“Keep your mouth shut, do what I tell you, and you might live. And,” he added with emphasis, “you just might be able to avoid having your face cut to shreds. I haven’t made my final decision on that yet.”

He was gratified to see some of the fear return to her eyes. He gripped one of her arms and, in a quick motion, roughly yanked her up off the ground and deposited her on her feet. She stumbled slightly but managed to catch herself and remain upright. He re-sheathed the knife, shoved his right hand under her left arm and began pushing her toward the roadway.

#

Heart pounding, Nate slowly crawled forward. He could see the lights of the nearby cabin through the underbrush in front of him. He didn’t know where their assailants might be, however, and he feared that, at any moment, he’d come up on one of them. In his right hand, he clutched the pistol Matt had given him, finger on the trigger and thumb on the safety, ready to flip it forward into firing mode as Matt had shown him. He’d never fired a pistol before. He hoped he wouldn’t have to tonight. But he was grimly prepared to do so if necessary.

He eased himself up to the spot Matt had described and expelled a relieved breath. From where he lay now, he could see clearly the door of the cabin, which hung ajar. He also had a good view of the dirt-covered clearing in front the structure. Soft light spilling from the door and a few windows combined with the moon overhead to illuminate the space. He couldn’t see or hear anyone else.

Earlier, he’d worked his way through the darkened woods in the direction Matt had laid out for him, his mind full of horrible images, while gunshots and explosions ripped through the night. Matt had warned him about that and had admonished him not to worry. Of course, that was easier said than done. The shooting, thank God, had finally stopped, and silence had descended.

Nate was desperately afraid for the others. His brothers. Patricia and Tim. Maggie. And, now that he was no longer moving, his instincts told him he needed to be doing something. What, though, he had no idea. And Matt had told him to wait.

A rustle in the nearby brush startled him. Then something pounced. An animal, he realized in panic. He was about to jump up when the creature began licking his face furiously. Buster. With his free hand, Nate reached out and pulled the little dog to him, cradling him in his arm and holding him close to his side. The poor creature was shaking uncontrollably. Rubbing a thumb against the loose skin behind one of Buster’s ears, Nate made a gentle shushing sound. Slowly, the dog’s shaking subsided. Eventually, Buster lay his head across Nate’s forearm and began to pant softly.

Nate thought he saw movement in the lane, and, then, out of the darkness, two figures appeared. His breath caught. Maggie, her hands apparently tied behind her back, staggered forward, being pushed by a man who looked vaguely familiar, though Nate couldn’t immediately say why. Then he realized where he’d seen him. He’d been on the patrol boat that had chased them the day before.

Nate peered down the barrel of the pistol, wondering if he could hit the man from here. More likely, he realized, he’d hit Maggie. He kept the safety on.

As the two neared the cabin, the man yanked Maggie to a stop, reached into a pocket and withdrew something that he held up near his head.

“Hammer One,” he heard the man say. “Go ahead.”

A second voice, metallic and faint, but still audible in the quiet, said, “There’s no prisoner here.”

The head of the man holding Maggie jerked up, and he whipped around just as another large explosion tore through the night.

“Shit,” he heard the man exclaim. “Shit.”

The man looked around quickly, then pushed Maggie toward a stand of trees near the rear of the cabin. She almost fell, but the hand on her arm kept her upright. When they reached the trees, they melded into the darkness.

Though he couldn’t see them, Nate could hear the man apparently speaking urgently into the communications device. “Hammer One to team. Report.” Nate did not hear a reply. “Hammer Five, check in.” Still nothing. “Hammer Seven, report.” After a few more seconds, Nate heard the man swear once more. Then the night was again still.