Crown of Souls, page 20
Tox held out a palm. “Stop right there,” he called in Arabic, lessons from his days as a Green Beret in A-stan and Iraq coming back hard.
“Just a kid,” Wallace whispered behind them, most likely wanting to defuse the anxiety warbling like heat waves.
Tox didn’t like holding a weapon on a child, but the kids in this region were raised differently. Some were given fully automatic weapons and IEDs instead of pencil and paper.
“‘Just a kid’?” Maangi’s soft mutter held frustration. “Had a cowboy friend whose team was blown up by a seven-year-old in a suicide vest.”
A stream of fluent Arabic, unlike Tox’s limited but effective ability, sailed off Ram’s tongue, stilling the father-and-son duo. The father, his dusty beard shielding his mouth, replied quickly. Fervently.
Ram angled only his head toward Tox. “Says the boy drew something we need to see back there.”
Behind the duo were shadows and broken buildings. Not exactly safe. “Thoughts?”
Ram’s weapon hadn’t lowered. “Not sure.”
When the boy’s hand lifted, Tox twitched. “Wait—”
A paper flapped on a rare, hot breeze that stirred dust and emotions. The simple offering seemed to mock their apprehension.
It’s just a kid. Just a paper. Innocuous enough, distracting enough. But the reality existed: American soldiers were targets. They got bombed. With the murder of one of their people, it would make sense this village wanted retaliation. Revenge.
Reaching for the paper, Ram dragged his foot forward. Not a real step. He hadn’t moved much, but he was within striking distance. Tox realized he held his breath. Their hunger to stop Alec was making them take risks.
Ram muttered his thanks as he stepped backward with the drawing. But they were still too close. If there was a bomb . . . they’d be shipped home in baggies.
A heavy huff made Tox skate a look at Ram, who handed him the paper, eyes on the father and son as he again thanked the boy.
The kid’s brown eyes were on the drawing Tox held. Attention falling to the paper, Tox winced. His vain hope that this wasn’t Alec, that he wasn’t responsible, tripped and fell over the proof. Though there was a confused tangle of scribbling around it like any other child’s chaotic depiction, the drawing revealed much. The boy had clearly sketched Alec’s symbol in the middle.
Ram shouldered closer and tapped the page. “The father says this was on the outer wall of his house, painted by the guy who killed the victim. Villagers scrubbed it off.”
“They didn’t know about the field, I guess,” Thor muttered.
“When your people are getting killed, you don’t worry about grass,” Ram growled.
“Show me,” Tox demanded, then glanced over his shoulder. “Keogh.”
The military working dog handler was waiting in the still-running MRAP, as VVolt needed cool shelter and water to avoid heat exhaustion.
“Show you what?” Ram hissed. “It’s gone—washed off.”
“The house.”
Keogh and the Malinois trotted up, walnut eyes squinting in the sun with both pleasure and excitement.
“Take us farther in again.” Tox nodded to the father and son.
“We’ll patrol ahead,” Keogh said, ready to be useful. He gave commands to VVolt and started after the father and son.
“Right back into the lion’s den,” Thor muttered.
Sweat dripped down Tox’s temples and spine as he trudged through the town, scanning doors and windows, stealing glances at the MWD team. He found comfort in their presence, but it wasn’t a foolproof guarantee. This entire situation, luring them away from their vehicle, was standard MO for an ambush. But he believed enough in this man’s story to follow him. To take the risk.
So desperate for this not to be real, not to be Alec’s doing.
“Cole,” Haven called as she came up on his left.
Without stopping or answering, he sandwiched her between him and Ram, and away from a local.
“Look,” she said softly.
He glanced in her direction. When he saw what was in her hand, he stopped short. A challenge coin. “Where—?”
“The little girl. She talked to me, remember?”
“Why didn’t you tell me she gave you that?”
“I tried, but Cell called us away, and we got distracted with the ghost signals.”
“Hold on to it,” he muttered, unwilling to lower his weapon as they eased around a corner, scanning the narrowing path.
The building at the far end of the alley stood in a puddle, the result of the locals trying to scrub away Alec’s presence. But like the stain Alec was, the symbol seeped through the plaster and glared back at them. Just like Alec had been doing.
“Why mark the field and the house?” Ram asked. “And leave a coin?”
Tox shrugged. “Overkill.”
“Yeah, he does that well.”
Keogh and VVolt had reached the house. The Malinois went up on his hind legs, his right front paw resting on the wall as he sniffed the mark, apparently drawn by the smell of the paint—an accelerant. He dropped back down, the sides of his snout flapping as he took in scents along the base of the hut. Long draughts. Short draughts. Long exhales and snorts. In, out. Taste, mull.
He veered right, nose all but buried in the sand.
Then switched left. Right. Left.
When Keogh snapped up a fist, signaling an all-stop, Tox’s nerves screamed. He waited, motioning the others back. They kept eyes on VVolt as the Malinois did his thing. Anticipating an explosion. A concussion.
But VVolt lifted his head and trotted to the other side of the path, then hiked up his leg and relieved himself at the corner of another house. A nervous waft of chuckles evaporated the tension.
Keogh shrugged and motioned them forward.
Tox shook off his dread and started for the house. VVolt might not have gotten a hit, but he increased their chances of coming home alive. MWD and handler patrolled between buildings, toward a small field that looked like a dog with mange, grassy in one place, barren in another.
Turning to him, Ram sighed. “This—”
Boom!
Searing white exploded across Tox’s field of vision.
20
— DAY 22 —
NIMRUZ PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN
Punched backward, Haven felt a superheated blast tear over her. Daylight winked out. Pain dragged her from the darkness. She lifted her head. Fire seared her corneas. She yelped, her own voice hollow, as if underwater. She blinked several times, trying to get her bearings. What had happened?
A shadow fell over her. Something clamped her upper arm.
She looked up. A shape shifted and blurred. Pain pricked her neck. The world again faded into oblivion.
Attack!
They’d been attacked.
Slumped against a wall, Tox fought the effects. Struggling to clear his head, telling himself to get on his feet. Assess his injuries. The team. Hearing plugged, he squinted through the haze and staggered upward.
Haven.
Head and heart thundering, he climbed to a knee. Where was she? “Sound off!” he shouted to the team, his ears still ringing.
Thor and Maangi. Then Cell. Ram. What about Keogh?
“Wallace and Cortes are MIA,” Ram called.
Tox scrambled to think, to find her. Where had she been? Behind him, right? Tensed beneath the pain pounding his skull, he scanned the smoky haze burning his eyes, making them gritty. “Haven!” His popped ears warped his shout.
What caused the explosion?
The bright light. Being flipped backward.
A bomb.
From where?
Thor and Maangi were rushing toward him, alarm plastered into their dirt-streaked faces. Half the buildings near the end of the alley had sustained heavy damage. The ones closer were missing chunks of wall, but nothing major. Good thing the villagers had been out near the well, arguing with each other, or Wraith would be dealing with casualties and fatalities.
Straightening, Tox lifted a hand to let them know he was fine. He spotted Cell hunched against a half-destroyed wall, blood seeping from his temple, with a glower that mirrored the fury roiling up through Tox. He worked to clear his hearing, nearly buckling when it did.
“Keogh,” he said to Ram, whose left tactical sleeve was shredded. His arm looked like someone had taken a rake to it.
Ram was searching, too. No Wallace. No Haven. He turned, called out, “Keogh! Cortes!”
“Haven!” Tox swiveled his head. Scanned. Surged forward. Panic clawed at him. She wasn’t where she’d last been. Where could she have gone? “Eyes out,” he ordered. “Find Cortes and Keogh. Now!”
The five members of Wraith worked organically in a grid pattern, clearing the houses around them, then fanned out.
A curse seared the air. “Keogh!” Cell shouted. “Man down! Man down!”
Tox rushed forward, M4 pressed to his shoulder, unwilling to end up in a pine box on a C-130. As he climbed over a pile of cement, plaster, and rebar, he realized the debris had been the house marked by Alec’s crown. When he stepped off the crumbled house, he saw the depression—several feet deep. Cell and Maangi stood at the perimeter. Dark spots stained the ground—blood.
Why weren’t they helping? Tox hustled forward.
“Call off your dog,” Cell bit out.
The dog’s ears were angled back. Growling permeated the air. Bent over the mangled body of Drew Keogh, VVolt, haunches up, forepaws down, growled, daring Cell and Maangi to advance.
Keogh’s chest rose and fell unevenly. His lips moved, but Tox didn’t hear anything.
VVolt whimpered, then backed up to his handler, watching Wraith.
Cell and Maangi edged in carefully, slowly. They knelt.
Only as Tox cleared the rim did he see the extent of Keogh’s injuries. Legs were gone. His left arm dangled by a tendon. Blood soaked into the unforgiving earth. He’d bleed out. Three limbs. Three men to apply tourniquets.
No time to waste.
Tox threw himself down into the pit, shrugging off his pack. His hand was already in his ruck, curling around his med kit, before his knees hit the ground.
Maangi and Cell hurried to apply tourniquets to the legs. The pain made Keogh thrash and howl, until he finally fell quiet and still. Alive, but barely. Unconscious.
“Keogh. Eyes open!” Tox barked as he worked on the arm. Tourniquet first. Then strap the arm to him so doctors could reattach it later.
“I’ll look for his legs,” Thor said.
Nauseated at the mutilated flesh, Tox continued working. Blood slicked his hands and gloves, making it difficult to twist the tourniquet tight. He gritted his teeth and closed his mind to the sweet, metallic scent that filled the air.
Ram was there, a strip of cloth tied around his own arm as he threaded a wide-bore IV.
Swiping the blood from his face, Cell shouted into his comms, “Wraith Three requesting immediate medevac to our location.”
Blood squirted. Tox clamped his molars and twisted the tourniquet again, the torque cutting into his fingers. Finally the bleeding trickled off. Though Keogh was critical, Tox had seen soldiers survive injuries like this. It took a miracle, years of surgeries and therapy, but they survived. If VVolt hadn’t patrolled off-lead and ahead of his handler, the Malinois would probably be dead.
“Losing his pulse,” Maangi said.
Tox raced through options. “Keogh, stay with us.”
His eyes fluttered. Rolled.
“Keogh!” Tox shouted.
“Thready. We have to get him out of here now,” Maangi said.
Ram produced the stretcher. “Let’s go.”
As they loaded Keogh up to move him to an open area where the chopper could retrieve him, Thor returned. In his hands, he carried a bundle wrapped in a bag, dripping blood. “Only found one.”
Then it hit Tox. “Haven and Wallace are still missing.” His gut tightened. Would he find her in a ditch, too? Cell, Maangi, Thor, and Ram lifted the makeshift stretcher.
A local scurried up to help, then two more.
“Get him back to the MRAP,” Tox ordered. “I’m going to find them.”
“I’ll help,” Thor said, guiding one of the locals to take his place at the stretcher.
Tox nodded. “Don’t wait for me.” He keyed his mic. “Command, this is Wraith Six Actual.”
“Go ahead, Actual. What is your situation?”
“We need that medevac—one critically injured. Two MIA.”
“Copy that. Medevac en route. ETA in ten. Sending coordinates.”
“Roger that. Team will rendezvous then circle back.” Tox turned his attention to finding Haven and Wallace. “Ready?” he said to Thor.
Weapon up, anger blazing, he stalked back toward the passage that had blown. They climbed the mound of rubble. Up, over. They stuck close to the walls. Avoided doors. Ducked beneath windows. He didn’t trust anyone right now. The damage was crazy, unpredictable, as evidenced by the demolished house next to another with chunks broken off yet stable. Then a third—a complete collapse, most likely from the concussion.
His gaze hit on something.
“Sarge!” Thor called, squatting at the very spot Tox eyed. A wall had folded in on itself. A boot stuck out from beneath it.
“Wallace.”
“I’m here,” the agent moaned, boot shifting. “I can’t . . .”
“Easy, easy,” Tox said, slinging his weapon over his back. “Any injuries that you can tell?”
“I . . . no, I don’t think so. Just stuck.”
Crouching, Tox grabbed the corner of the broken wall, grateful for the protection of his fingerless gloves. He nodded to Thor. “One . . . two . . . go.” They lifted, the cement shifting in their hands. “Wallace, hurry. It’s unstable.”
Wallace shimmied out but stopped with a foot still beneath the wall. “Pants’re caught!”
“Rip it!” Thor snapped through gritted teeth, his face crimson. Veins bulging.
“I can’t. Won’t give!”
“My knife,” Tox said, shifting his right leg so Wallace could reach it. “Cut it free.”
Wallace yanked out the KA-BAR and sawed at the material.
The wall trembled—so did Tox. A piece broke in his hand. The wall canted. Dropped. “Augh!” He caught it, but every muscle in his arms and shoulders shook. Still, he felt the grating cement in his hand, threatening, warning.
Wallace scrabbled backward. “Go!”
Thud! Whoosh!
Stunned, Wallace stared at the wall. Then his leg, which sported a nice gash but probably wouldn’t even need stitches.
“Tox.”
He pivoted to where Ram was jogging toward them, Keogh’s blood staining his tac shirt and pants. “She’s gone.”
She. There was only one she with them. Ice shot through Tox’s veins.
“Haven’s gone.”
21
— DAY 22 —
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
Entirely disappointing. He had given Tox plenty of time to join him. To recognize that he was designed for this purpose, to be the blade of justice in a world gone horribly wrong.
How could Tox refuse? Why would he?
Alec rubbed his lower lip, studying the monitor.
“Sir.”
He looked up at the burly frame filling the door. “What is it, Sagel?”
“It’s done.”
It wasn’t what he’d wanted or intended. But it had become necessary. If men learned their lessons the first time, they would not have to suffer the wounds that came with relearning them. Being forced to learn them. Most men only needed the right motivation. The right trigger. But Tox was proving rigid and obstinate. Disappointingly arrogant.
“King,” growled the diesel-engine voice of Jason Bollinger. “Check the news.”
Alec’s gaze flicked to the screen. A lovely journalist sat before the camera, prim and proper. Hair perfectly coiffed. Makeup expertly applied. He hit the volume button.
“—cre that took the lives of five local villagers. Among the dead is a man known to be connected to many ISIL attacks across the world. A man who publicly and brutally beheaded his own daughter for refusing to marry an ally.
“The man suspected in the death of Elarabi is also believed responsible for the killing of Gabir Karim and several top-level generals within the Afghan army. Men often deemed untouchable. While lawmakers and military personnel call this person a criminal and murderer, that is not the view of some on the street, some with boots on the ground.” Her gaze turned to another camera. “Reporting from Kabul is Mel Caral. Mel?”
The screen switched to a man in a blue shirt with sweat stains. “That’s right, Lila. Here at this forward operating base, this man, a purported Special Forces veteran gone rogue—”
“Hear that?” Bollinger said with a grin. “You’re a rogue.”
“—a hero. With me is a soldier, whom we’ll call Shaw for the sake of this interview.” Caral shifted toward the soldier as the camera panned, but they had concealed the man’s identity by showing only his silhouette. “What do you think of this man who has gone outside the wire and confines of military code?”
“I say it’s about”—bleep!—“time someone did something. Brass has us sitting on our hands, and we can’t win the war sitting on our”—bleep—“and weapons.”
“So you don’t think he’s gone beyond the law?”
“Sometimes in combat, the lines of right and wrong blur. It ain’t pretty, but we can’t let terrorists win. We can’t play Russian roulette with the lives of our military or civvies, who are being heinously murdered while we stand by and play political cards.”
The camera returned to Caral. “Earlier, I spoke with some Afghan villagers. Their sentiments are very similar. Frustration has built over the last few years as hands have been tied by political processes and government machinations. Ultimately, many feel politicians and armchair generals are playing games with their lives.”
A woman in a pink hijab, face blurred, said, “He is a hero! He saved my family.”
