American Operator, page 14
part #4 of Tier One Series
Theobold let out a slow breath through pursed lips. He held Dempsey’s eyes. “Who are you guys? I mean, if I’m gonna go all Butch and Sundance with you tonight, I oughta at least know who I’m taking bullets with.”
Dempsey started to give the man the standard ambiguous “spook speech” he’d memorized for these situations, but he stopped midsentence, deciding instead to play it straight.
“I’m John Dempsey,” he said, extending a gloved hand to Theobold. “I lead the direct-action arm of an ultrasecret task force run directly by the DNI. I can’t tell you much else, except that in a former life, I was a member of a tight-knit Tier One SEAL team. The group I’m with now is just as honorable and every bit the brotherhood as the one I left behind. The only difference is, there’s some tasking that needs to happen against the darkest of dark adversaries by operators who don’t exist on any org chart—the type of missions, I suspect, you might be uniquely prepared to appreciate.” Dempsey realized it was true—that Ember was as much a combat team family as his Tier One SEAL team had been.
The DIA man gripped his hand and shook it, his face breaking into a tight grin.
“I’m Sean,” the man said. “And I was Delta for a decade before I came to the group I’m with now.”
“So what do you think, Sean? We doing this or not?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “Let’s go get this girl.”
“Okay,” Dempsey said, suddenly feeling electric. The adrenaline floodgates were now open, and the anticipation of battle and victory was rising inside him. He scanned over the wall. “So just the one door on building two?”
“Yeah.”
“We both agree that’s the highest probability structure for where they’re keeping her? Thermals showed one figure in the back room, two guards in the front room.”
“Agreed.”
“And we’ve got the two guards out front, one roving patrol. Plus the three drivers and the five other signatures we had before the drivers arrived—that makes eleven possible responders. So we need to take her fast before the rest of these assholes mobilize and get their act together.”
“How about this,” Theobold said. “I take position at the door. You take position by that window on the south side. You breach the window and kick off the shooting—firing south to north, please, since I’m at the door. Hopefully you can put bullets in both shooters before I breach and enter. If not, we finish the guards in a ninety-degree cross fire. I secure the girl, bring her out, and we EXFIL over the wall and haul ass south to the truck. We have Kadir man the driver’s seat now and start the engine the moment shooting begins.”
Dempsey grimaced. “I don’t know. We might need that extra gun. Would be nice to have him provide cover fire for us on the egress to the vehicle.”
“Roger that, but I doubt he would engage. I trust him as an intel asset, but he’s no shooter. To be honest, we just need to pray he doesn’t bug out and leave us.”
Dempsey grumbled at this but nodded. Just the two of them versus roughly a dozen enemy combatants . . . What could possibly go wrong?
“Okay,” he said. “That all sounds good, except I think you and I should swap roles. You take the window; I’ll breach the door.”
There was no way he was letting anyone else breach a room alone. That burden was on him.
Theobold nodded. “Okay, fine, it’s your op.”
Dempsey popped his head above the wall, scanned the compound, and then dropped back down. “Those two guards by the gate will be on us quick, almost as soon as we kick it off.”
“I thought of that. While you’re breaching, assuming I’ve already dropped the two assholes inside, I’ll move to the corner and take them on their approach. Cool?”
“Perfect.”
Dempsey signaled go, and Theobold slipped silently over the wall. Dempsey covered the DIA operator as he sprinted across the gap to the outbuilding where Amanda Allen was being held. Theobold took a knee beneath the south window, sighted over his own rifle, and signaled to Dempsey that he was ready to cover. Dempsey slipped over the wall and advanced low and quiet in a tactical crouch. He vectored toward the north-side corner to maintain a better angle on the two sentries smoking at the front gate. Their backs were turned, their gazes and attention fixed on the access road leading to the compound, allowing him to reach the outbuilding without detection.
Taking position in front of the door, Dempsey exhaled a long controlled breath. Then, clutching his assault rifle, he counted down in a whisper, “Three . . . two . . . one . . . Go.”
CHAPTER 15
Twenty-four hours?
Thirty-six?
She couldn’t have been locked in the plywood cell any longer than that. She was pretty certain she’d been through only one day and one night. She’d been served only one meal—a bowl of rice that tasted like the blood in her mouth, compliments of her beating. She was leaning heavily on the instruction she’d received at the Farm. The mini-SEER module had been a blur, but they’d packed a lot into her head over those three weeks. They’d taught her to keep track of details, to keep her mind active and aware. In captivity, an agent’s wits were her only weapon. Yet despite knowing this, despite trying to prepare herself for the onslaught, without punctuating events to give structure to the day—like scheduled appointments, regular meals, and the rising and setting of the sun—her mind was beginning to feel untethered. She was a kite with a cut string, sucked into the black amorphous maw of a thunderhead.
Floating and tumbling.
Lost in a room the size of a closet.
She didn’t like it.
Before, in her old life, time was a reliable dancing partner. Not now. Not here. Here, it undulated and slithered around and beneath her—unpredictable and serpentine, with neither direction nor cadence.
It felt wrong and unnatural.
She closed her eyes, despite the darkness. Using two fingertips, she traced the skin and structures of her face. She started with her forehead, and then over eyebrows, roughing the hairs by going against the grain. Then she lightly caressed her eyelids, then her nose, finally settling on her lips—caressing the Cupid’s bow of her upper lip back and forth. Back and forth.
Some part of her brain informed her this was a self-stimulating, self-soothing behavior—a coping mechanism in response to her captivity. The first of many, she thought, and decided not to judge herself too harshly.
No matter what happens, I have to preserve my core spirit. They’ll try to break me. Depending on their methods and their brutality, they will undoubtedly succeed in breaking many parts of me. And I can let them break the parts because the parts can be put back together. But I have to protect my spirit. Lock it away in their presence and let it shine when I’m alone.
Gunfire erupted outside, jolting her from the confinement-induced stupor toying with her wits. Adrenaline flooded her bloodstream and her senses sharpened. Fear blossomed in her chest, along with uncertainty and hope. Yes, hope. Were the Navy SEALs here to rescue her? The timing made sense, executing the rescue before the terrorists could move her.
Glass shattered, and a loud volley of automatic weapon fire reverberated nearby. Reflexively, she shrank into the corner, making herself small, wondering if an errant strafe would send bullets ripping through the plywood walls of her cell, killing her accidentally. A pair of volleys answered, but this time the sound was muted because they were coming from outside the house. She heard boots pounding and men shouting just outside her cell. More glass shattered as bullets raked the walls and windows of the safe house. The intensity of the firefight increased, with more shooters seemingly joining the fray. She dropped to her stomach and pressed herself flat to the floor. She waited, lying perfectly still, listening. Her heart pounded fast and hard against her ribs as the battle for her liberation raged all around her. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the gunfire stopped.
A lump formed in her throat.
What’s going on now? Is it over?
She heard a crack, followed by three gunshots—single trigger pulls, not a volley this time.
“Amanda Allen?” a man’s voice boomed, baritone and hard.
Electric anticipation washed over her, and she popped up to her knees. “I’m here,” she tried to call, but her voice faltered.
“Amanda Allen,” the voice called again, this time closer and louder. “This is a hostage rescue, and I’m with the United States government.”
She swallowed hard and tried again. “I’m here,” she cried. “I’m in here.”
“When you were eight years old, you lived with your grandparents. What was the name of the town?” he shouted.
The non sequitur caught her off guard. “I don’t understand,” she called to him.
“Authentication protocol to confirm you’re actually you.”
“Cottonwood Falls.”
“And what type of animal did you go on a crusade to save that autumn?”
“Ladybugs,” she said, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. “I tried to save all the ladybugs.” Then, without warning, she began to weep uncontrollably.
“Are you injured?” he asked, but before she got a chance to answer, fresh gunfire erupted. Two bullets punched holes in the facing wall of her cell a mere foot above her head. Twin shafts of light streamed through like miniature spotlights as she dropped back to the floor and covered her head.
“We’ve got a problem, dude,” she heard another male voice call.
“No shit,” the first man cursed. “Where are they?”
“They’re firing from the other building,” the other man answered.
“Then we EXFIL back out the south window.”
“Negative. We’ve got shooters flanking south. They’re going to try to catch us in a cross fire.”
“Stay low, Amanda,” the first man barked. “We’ve got some bad guys to kill before we can get you out of here. I’ll be back.”
“Don’t go. Don’t leave me!” she heard herself cry out, but her plea was drowned by gunfire.
Gunfire raged on for what felt like an eternity, but she didn’t trust her perception of time. Then she heard someone yell, “Grenade!” and a beat later, a deafening thunderclap shook the ground. Shards of shrapnel punched fresh holes in her plywood prison, adding a half-dozen new rays of light streaming into her cell. Forcing herself not to panic, she performed a quick self-assessment—no acute pain, no burning, no wetness.
The firefight resumed, but now the tenor of the weapons firing from inside the house had changed. She was no weapons aficionado, but from her time at the Farm, she knew that every weapon had a unique sound signature that was a function of its design as well as the type and caliber of ammunition being fired. As she listened to the staccato pops, her stomach suddenly soured.
Something’s wrong, she thought.
She heard footsteps, and someone started fiddling with the lock on the door to her cell. The heavy padlock clanked as it was dropped on the floor. The door flung open, and a hulking figure stood backlit in the doorway. She squinted, fixing her gaze to try to make out the man’s face.
“No,” she gasped, her fragile hope shattering.
“Get up,” the man with the broken tooth barked.
She tried to scuttle backward away from him, but he stepped into the cell and grabbed a fistful of her hair. She yelped as he jerked her to her feet. Limbs flailing, she accidentally knocked over the full pail of her urine. It splashed on her left leg and foot but also onto his boots. Cursing, he threw her out of the cell onto the floor and kicked her several times. Then, grabbing her by the hair again, he dragged her toward the front of the house. She clutched his powerful wrist as he pulled her, lest he pop her head right off her shoulders. The female terrorist was waiting for them at the threshold of a door leading to what looked like a dirt field beyond. The woman held a black hood in her hands. The man with the broken tooth released Amanda’s hair, and as quick as a serpent strike, the woman brought the heavy fabric bag over her head.
“Nooooo,” Amanda screamed, clawing desperately to free herself, but two powerful arms picked her up off the ground. There were several more bursts of gunfire, and she felt her hope rise again.
“Kill them,” hollered the man with the broken tooth. His calm confidence snuffed that hope out.
Another burst of machine gun fire, this one followed by another and another. She tried to struggle, but the arm holding her across the terrorist’s shoulder was an iron vise. The man with the broken tooth carried her outside and threw her into the back seat of an idling vehicle. She was blind inside the hood, and she could barely breathe, but she fought anyway. She heard the door opposite her open. This was it, her last and only chance. Someone climbed into the back seat next to her. The woman probably. With a feral scream, Amanda lashed out—punching, clawing, and kicking. She tried to scramble out the other side of the SUV, but a hand jerked her back. The engine roared and she felt the SUV lurch. A heartbeat later, something smashed into the side of her head.
There was an explosion of pain.
And then nothing.
CHAPTER 16
Dempsey performed a quick self-assessment.
He’d felt the heat, felt the concussive blast, but had managed to dive out the window a split second before the grenade detonated. His right shoulder stung with pain from the awkward impact on the ground, but he didn’t appear to have taken any shrapnel. He scanned for Theobold, but the former Delta operator was nowhere to be found.
“Two, this is One,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “Do you have eyes on the package?”
No response.
Had Theobold been hit in the barrage of AK-47 cross fire that had pinned them down and prevented the egress they’d planned? And what had become of Amanda Allen? He advanced to the corner of the outbuilding and took a knee. A volley of AK-47 fire strafed the building just feet away. A beat later, he heard return fire nearby.
Dempsey popped around the corner, fired several short bursts at the main house, and shouted, “I’m coming, Sean.” He didn’t have to go far; Theobold was collapsed against the side of the outbuilding, trying to return fire from a dreadfully indefensible position. Dempsey grabbed him by the straps and dragged him around the corner.
“How bad are you hit?” he asked, inspecting the operator.
“I took a round in the flank,” Theobold said, wincing, “but I’m in the fight.”
“Where’s Allen?” Dempsey said. “Did you see what happened?”
“They dragged her out, threw a bag over her head, and tossed her in the back of an SUV. I tried to go after her, but there were too many of them.”
“It’s okay,” Dempsey said, moving back to the corner. “I’ll get her back.”
He sighted around the corner and fired a volley at the main house, then scanned the access road. An SUV was already tearing away, the right front tire crushing the head of one of their fallen terrorist comrades like a grape as it accelerated toward the closed gate. A second vehicle, a pickup truck, spun tires and accelerated in retreat as a fleeing terrorist dove into the open bed.
Well, at least that’s one less bastard shooting at us, Dempsey thought as he watched the lead SUV smash through the gate, skidding and weaving before straightening out to speed down the access road toward the highway. He shifted his attention from the SUV bugging out with Amanda Allen inside to the enemy fighters in the driveway. Two shooters stood behind the remaining car, a sedan, holding assault rifles and raining fire down on their position. He positioned the red dot of his holosite center of mass on one of the shooters, squeezed the trigger, and the man collapsed in a heap by the rear bumper. He tried to shift his aim to the other shooter, but a volley of AK-47 rounds splintered the wood inches above his head, driving him back to cover.
After a three count, he popped out to fire another volley, but something terrible caught his attention: a figure stood backlit in the open door of the main house, pointing a rocket-propelled grenade launcher directly at him.
“RPG,” he shouted.
A bright flash burned away Dempsey’s night vision, and the glowing projectile sailed toward them, dragging a serpentine trail of smoke behind it. Dempsey sprinted clear and dove as the RPG slammed into the side of the outbuilding. He experienced the all-too-familiar feeling of the universe being compressed and the air being sucked away, and then the tinny, head-full-of-cotton feeling that told him he had survived as debris rained on and around him.
Groaning, he turned to look back at the main house and saw the doorway was now empty and the shooter was fleeing toward the idling sedan. Rage and fury drove him to his feet, and without a second thought, he pursued. His weapon was up, and in that moment, it became an extension of his consciousness. His red targeting dot found the middle of the fleeing shooter’s back and two rounds flew, connecting and pitching the man forward, his back arching violently as he crumpled to the dirt. Dempsey shifted the red dot to the next target—a bearded fighter, rifle coming up—and squeezed the trigger. The round entered the man’s forehead and spit his skull’s gory contents out onto the trunk. The final shooter saw this and immediately panicked; he dropped his weapon and fumbled with the rear driver-side door as Dempsey charged straight at him.
Three more strides and Dempsey would be there.
The driver whirled to look at Dempsey through the rear glass. Dempsey saw terror in the man’s eyes, and a heartbeat later, the engine roared to life. The car’s tires sprayed sand and pebbles in a rooster tail as it fought for traction. It fishtailed wildly, knocking the panicked fighter to the ground. The young terrorist screamed as both of his legs went under the car, where they were promptly crushed by the car’s spinning rear tires. Dempsey put a bullet through the man’s throat as he ran past. He let his rifle fall against his chest, secured to his torso by a combat sling. He sprinted, arms pumping, as the car lurched forward. He willed his legs to pound the dirt just a little faster and then dove awkwardly, trying to land on the hood—his plan to shoot the driver through the windshield.
