American operator, p.26
American Operator, page 26
part #4 of Tier One Series
“Check,” Dempsey said, drifting toward the center of the BMW.
Fire . . . move . . . fire . . .
He popped up again and fired, but all the targets had repositioned since his last look. He dropped down again as bullets and tracers pounded the Beemer.
“Atlas, this is Zeus,” Grimes called into his ear. “I’m up. I have range and angles to cover your six and anything between you and those black SUVs.”
“What about the assholes behind the SUVs?”
“Negative, they’re dug in like ticks, and the way they parked is blocking my LOS. If only I had more elevation. I can put holes in the vehicles and give you cover fire.”
“Check.”
“Stand by. I’ll call your next shot.”
Dempsey looked over at Raz and smiled. “Help is here. Pop up and fire on my mark. We’re about to get a few seconds of covering fire from the north.”
He listened to Grimes’s whispered voice on the open line: “Three . . . two . . .”
On “one,” he heard the first shot ring out from her .300 WinMag. On “zero,” he called “Now” to Raz and they popped up. Dempsey sighted on the closest SUV as Grimes’s second and third rounds slammed into the vehicles, his red dot traveling across the hood. A shooter popped up, aiming at the rooftop where Grimes was working. Dempsey placed his red targeting dot and fired. The bullet tore through the man’s neck, and two other shooters trying to engage disappeared like gophers down a hole.
“Titan is a three-man team,” said Munn in Dempsey’s ear. “On the ground now, moving fast to the northeast corner of the main house to put your tangos in a cross fire.”
“Take your time and clear,” Dempsey said, not wanting any casualties today. “We have them pinned down.”
“Check.”
“Olympus, Atlas—report thermals. Do you have eyes on the package?”
“I have three thermal signatures in the house,” Baldwin said, a strange hesitancy in his voice. “Two down and one moving. There was a prolonged struggle, but we are optimistic that the ambulatory signature we’re watching now is female.”
“Translation: we think Amanda Allen is in the fight,” said Adamo’s voice.
Dempsey felt his heart swell with excitement at the news, but then the feeling quickly morphed into irritation. “So she was fighting for her life in there and you didn’t tell me?”
“Check,” said a new voice, Smith this time, the unspoken implication obvious: We didn’t want you charging in there, hair on fire, without backup and getting yourself shot.
But wasn’t that his call to make? When they got home, this matter of withholding pertinent data might warrant a conversation.
“Olympus, Titan. How many assholes do you hold behind those circled wagons?” Munn asked.
“Five shooters and one KIA,” came Baldwin’s reply.
“They move and shoot like us. Who the hell are these guys?”
“I’m recording images of their vehicles and faces as I get them, but no recognition pops in the database so far,” Baldwin said. “And I agree. Their performance rebuffing our assault has been impressive to say the least.”
“So glad you think so,” Munn said. “How about you offer me some guidance on the best position for my team so we can shoot these very impressive motherfuckers?”
“Of course,” Baldwin said, unfazed. “There is a maintenance shed ten meters northeast of the northeast corner of the house. Perhaps you could divide your team, one of you taking the corner of the house, the other two taking positions behind the shed to widen your field of fire.”
“Roger. Two, you and me,” Munn said.
“Atlas, you have a single tango trying to flank you from the south,” Baldwin reported. “Roving patrol, I believe.”
“I got him” came Grimes’s cool voice in Dempsey’s ear.
Dempsey spun around, pressed his back against the BMW, where he felt the vibration of another volley of enemy fire against the heavy sedan, and scanned the expansive wooded yard to his right. He saw a figure, arms pumping and a rifle in hand, charging toward him. A crack echoed from Grimes’s WinMag, and the man crumpled to the ground. The last member of the compound’s four-man roving patrol was now down. That left the five tangos dug in behind the vehicles and Amanda Allen inside. The problem was, this was taking too long. They should have been on the EXFIL already. If they didn’t wrap this up, they were going to have every bad guy in Manbij pouring in to join the fight.
“Olympus, Atlas. The back of the compound is clear, correct?” Dempsey asked.
“Affirmative.”
“All right. I can’t do shit from this position. I’m going to try to loop around south, breach the compound from the back side, and extract the package. Titan and Zeus, you’ll need to keep these assholes up front busy.”
“Roger that, Atlas,” said Munn. “Titan will be in position in less than one mike. Once you secure the package, we’ll egress south to join you for pickup by Banshee One behind the compound.”
“Roger that,” Dempsey said.
“Call the covering fire,” said Grimes in his ear.
“Check,” Dempsey answered.
“Titan in position.”
Dempsey turned to Raz. “You’re coming with me, bro. We’re gonna make a run for the house.”
“You go,” Raz said. “I’ll help cover from here.”
Dempsey shook his head. “I can’t leave you here with no comms. We have to stay together. My team will keep these assholes pinned down while we loop around to the back. We grab the girl, egress, and get the hell out of here by air.”
Raz pursed his lips. “What about my wheels? I can’t leave my car.”
Dempsey suppressed a tight grin. “I’ll get you a new car, Raz. I promise.”
“It has to be armored,” the young vigilante said.
“Of course.”
“And black.”
“No problem.”
“And a BMW . . .”
“Whatever you fucking want, bro. I promise.”
Raz nodded, and together they crabbed toward the rear of the BMW as a maelstrom of bullets pounded the opposite quarter panel. Dempsey got into a ready position, like a runner in the starting blocks. Raz did the same.
Dempsey tensed, waiting at the ready.
“Covering fire,” Grimes said in his ear, and suppressing fire from all his teammates reverberated in the night.
“Go,” he shouted, and then he and Raz took off in a sprint for their lives.
CHAPTER 33
Clutching the AK-47, Amanda moved toward the front of the house. When she got to the front door, she dropped to a knee and peeked outside. To her left, she spied three black SUVs grouped in a crescent. Sheltering behind the vehicles were five operators dressed in coyote-gray cargo pants and black long-sleeve shirts, tucked in. They were shooting at the broadside of a car—a battered BMW that appeared to have crashed into a hedge just inside the smashed front gate. Behind the car, she caught a glimpse of a large man, filthy, with a full beard and long unkempt hair. He appeared to be wearing a heavy vest—a suicide vest perhaps—and he was shooting at the operators behind the SUVs. Beside him, a dark-skinned fighter with a full black beard popped up and fired a volley before they both dropped from sight and crouched at the rear of the sedan.
Those are the bad guys for sure. The operators with the SUVs have to be the Americans. It’s a Special Forces team come to take me home.
Amanda belly-crawled out the front door and stopped behind a heavy porch railing with concrete balusters. She got to her knees, raised the rifle over the top of the railing, and aimed at the big man behind the BMW, her vantage point giving her a better angle than the Americans pinned down behind the SUVs. Her finger tightened on the trigger—
The roar of automatic weapon fire erupted to her right as a firestorm of bullets pounded the SUVs from the opposite direction of the BMW. She shrieked and dropped back to the ground. Loud cracks punctuated the machine gun fire. She peeked through the gap between two balusters and watched as her rescuers took cover from fire targeting them from two directions. She glanced at the BMW and saw the big man and the other bearded fighter sprinting toward the back of the house and then out of view.
Oh shit, they’re going to come in the back and ambush us, she thought and began crawling toward the northernmost corner of the porch. I have to warn the American operators . . .
CHAPTER 34
Dempsey ran, arms pumping, legs churning, waiting for the round to his temple that would end it all . . .
The bullet never came.
He passed the southwest corner of the house, slowed, and pressed against the wall. A half second later, Raz slammed into the wall beside him, breathing hard and laughing. “See how fun this shit is when you don’t have to do it alone?”
“Yeah, this is one helluva party we crashed,” Dempsey said, shaking his head. “All right, let’s sweep around the back, breach the rear door, and grab the girl.”
“Hold, Atlas,” said Baldwin’s voice, halting them in place. “We have a small problem. The package has left the house.”
“What?” he barked.
“She’s on the porch,” Grimes said. “I can see her. She’s crawling toward the shooters.”
“What the hell is she doing? She’s going to get herself killed,” Dempsey said and then added, “Cover fire. I want to take a look.”
Grimes started shooting, and the gunfire from Munn’s three-man team increased its tempo. Dempsey dropped into a combat crouch and crept around the corner of the house, exposed just long enough to peek onto the front porch before darting back. In that instant, he made eye contact with Amanda Allen. She was battered and bloodied, dressed in men’s clothes, and she looked over her shoulder as she crawled straight toward the SUVs. He’d committed her face to memory, and the woman on the porch was definitely Allen.
“I’m here!” he heard her scream from the porch. “I’m over here!”
“What is she doing now?” Grimes said on the line.
“It’s me, Amanda Allen!” she screamed.
“Zeus, cover fire. Keep those shooters down! Keep their heads down!” Dempsey yelled, and when he heard the first round from the WinMag, he popped out around the corner again. “Amanda Allen!” he shouted at the porch.
She spun toward him, but instead of greeting him with relief, she raised an AK-47 at him, arms trembling. “No!”
He ducked.
She fired.
The bullet missed, blowing a chunk out of the concrete railing a foot above his head. Then she dropped the rifle and vaulted over the front railing.
“What the fuck is she doing?” Munn said. “Atlas, she’s running to the bad guys.”
“Amanda, no!” Dempsey screamed.
She froze and then spun around to look at him. Realization spread over her face as she recognized her mistake. Dempsey watched in horror as one of the enemy shooters intercepted her, wrapped an arm around her waist and another around her neck. She shrieked, her voice a dying animal, as the man dragged her toward the cluster of SUVs. Dempsey brought his rifle up and surged forward in a combat crouch. He watched Allen get thrown into the back seat of the middle SUV while the other shooters unleashed a barrage of heavy counterfire in three directions: at Grimes, Munn’s team, and him.
He twisted, dove right, and landed painfully on the brick steps leading onto the porch as enemy bullets whizzed past all around him. “Take them!” he shouted to both Munn and Grimes as he rolled and popped up to a kneeling stance, sighting through the concrete balusters and searching for targets. The shooters were disappearing, one by one, into their vehicles.
“We’re advancing from the east,” Munn called, raining bullets on the enemy position.
“Zeus, Atlas—disable those vehicles,” Dempsey ordered. Then he popped to his feet, spun right, and sprinted up the brick steps onto the porch. He ran three meters, took a knee, and sighted in on the only remaining target he saw—a man with close-cropped hair slipping into the passenger seat of the lead vehicle. He squeezed the trigger and the man pitched sideways, his bloody head slamming into the B-pillar and then his body collapsing to the ground. The middle car started backing up, freeing itself from the other two.
He heard two cracks from Grimes’s WinMag as sniper rounds slammed into sheet metal with seemingly no effect. Dempsey unloaded the remaining twelve rounds in his magazine at the driver’s window, which starred multiple times, but no rounds penetrated.
Fucking ballistic glass.
“They’re armored,” Grimes reported. “I can’t stop them.”
He dropped the magazine from the rifle and slammed another one into place. He fired at the driver-side door, but it was useless. All three SUVs were on the move now and exiting the compound. “They’re getting away,” he growled, his voice a furious thunderstorm.
“C’mon,” a voice called to Dempsey’s left. “Let’s go!”
Dempsey turned to see Raz sprinting back to the BMW. With a crooked grin, Dempsey vaulted the porch railing, landed with a thud, and charted toward the front passenger door.
“John, wait,” Munn called. Then to the pilot he said, “Banshee One, we need immediate pickup.”
Dempsey was at the car now, pulling open the passenger-side door and sliding in.
“Atlas, stand by. We have air support picking you up and we are tracking the package.”
Raz was in the car now, turning over the heavy engine with a grumbling, throaty roar.
“Go?” the former Marine asked, looking at him.
“Go!” Dempsey said and slammed his door. “Titan, complete the pickup, grab Grimes, and check in with me. We’ll pursue by ground; you pursue by air. We do whatever it takes. No way in hell I’m letting her slip through my fingers a third time.”
CHAPTER 35
Amanda Allen stared at her blood-soaked hands, defeated.
Tears streamed down her cheeks and dripped in pink drops from her chin. She watched as one landed onto the back of her left hand. It seemed to hesitate a moment, as if deciding which way to fall. The car swerved and the tear slipped right, running between her thumb and the meaty part of her hand.
I’m so fucking stupid . . . so stupid, she thought, closing her eyes. I ran to the wrong people.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to savage the operator sitting beside her, savage him like she had the man with the broken tooth. She wanted to do these things, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. Because it was over. She had accepted that now. Fate or God or whatever cruel force of the universe was plotting against her had, yet again, turned the tide inexplicably against her. She would never be free again. Her escape had been pointless. Meaningless.
No, she corrected herself, not meaningless.
She’d triumphed over the broken tooth man. If that was to be her final act of courage, defiance, and self-preservation, it was a good one. If only she could have killed the woman terrorist, Mutla, as well. There was a special place in hell for people like her—a woman who would watch and even condone the torture and rape of another woman.
“Sunt in spatele nostrum!” said the passenger in the front seat, glancing over his shoulder and out the back window.
She didn’t recognize the language, but it sounded Slavic.
The man beside her leaned forward and smacked him in the back of his head. “Kes Sesini!” he said and then glanced at her.
That was Turkish, she thought, my chaperone telling the other guy to shut the fuck up.
She twisted in her seat and glanced over her shoulder out the rear window. A pair of headlights winked at her, trailing their three-vehicle convoy and closing the gap. The driver jerked the wheel, slamming her into the door. She cursed under her breath. Then she eyed the brute sitting in the seat next to her. Caucasian, short-cropped dark hair, military bearing, and unmarked tactical clothing. He looked like an American operator.
But he didn’t talk like one.
The filthy guy with the beard and the vest, he had been the American sent to rescue her. If she had just stopped and used her head. If she had just listened to the sound of his voice, she would have recognized him as the same man who had tried to rescue her from the first compound. But the wild-man appearance and the intensity in his eyes had terrified her. She’d actually tried to shoot her knight in shining armor.
I’m such an idiot.
Finally feeling her stare, the operator beside her turned and met her gaze. His face was a mask. His eyes were ice. After several long seconds of playing “Who’s going to look away first?” he put a hand on her face and pushed her chin away.
These guys are Russians. Man not Malik sold me to the fucking Russians!
A wave of nausea curdled her stomach. Her mouth began to salivate, and she was positive she was going to vomit. The last time she’d vomited was when she’d gotten completely wasted at a party her sophomore year in college. She’d never drunk like that again. Ever. She hated the feeling of being hungover. But more importantly, she hated feeling out of control.
Just like this.
The nausea passed.
Another tear dripped from her chin.
She thought of the glass cyanide pearl the Man not Malik had given her. He’d called it a gift, and now she understood why. She would give anything to have that little glass pellet back—anything to pop it in her mouth and laugh at these Spetsnaz assholes who’d risked their lives to retrieve a dead girl. If only she hadn’t used it to kill that terrorist who tried to choke her. But if she hadn’t, then she’d be dead right now.
She glanced again at the Russian operative beside her, and he fixed her with a malevolent glare.
Yes, death would have been better than the fate that awaited her now.
CHAPTER 36
Dempsey glanced at the speedometer and saw that Raz was doing 100 mph, rapidly closing ground on the convoy of SUVs speeding through the streets of Manbij.
