CHAPTER 32

Heavy machine-gun fire exploded windows as a maelstrom of bullets shredded the opposite wall and punched holes in the ceiling. Glass, fabric, and chunks of plaster turned the air into a kaleidoscope of swirling debris and flying destruction. Whitney made herself small on the floor—curled up like a kindergartner hiding under a desk—and prayed for it to be over.

The analytical part of her mind recognized that the barrage was coming from the large machine gun in the bed of the pickup truck—the “technical,” the guys had called it. That same part of her brain understood that if the gunner was aiming at their hotel room window, then it was impossible for her to be hit by a bullet because the upward angle was so steep; all the rounds flew into the ceiling. To hit her, he’d have to fire through the wall of the hotel room below them. It was just rudimentary geometry. Thankfully, her left brain reminded her, the Taliban probably did not spend much time studying geometry. But the rest of her brain didn’t care.

She was terrified.

Her stomach heaved, but she managed to turn her head to avoid spattering Yi, vomiting on the carpet against the back wall.

Yi rubbed her back. “We got this, Whitney,” she said.

She wiped her mouth, then took two long breaths to calm herself—what she had started thinking of as “Chunk breaths”—and then repositioned behind the dresser they had shoved against the wall beside the open door. She sighted over the dresser and down the long hall over her rifle. The floating green dot of her IR target designator bounced up and down, compliments of her shaking arms, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t still it.

“They’ll move cautiously in the first wave,” Theobald called over his shoulder. He’d still not fired through the window—not wanting to give away their position, she assumed. “They won’t know how many we are or which rooms we occupy. The technical strafed the entire third floor across this side of the building. They know we’re on the third floor, but that’s it. They’ll have to be methodical.”

“Who else do we have on this floor?” she asked, not wanting to shoot a friendly by accident.

“Brusk,” a familiar voice said on the line. “I’m in a room halfway down the hall, so don’t shoot me in the back. Hold fire until they’ve spotted you or I’ve fired first, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, her voice a shuddering breath.

Her hands were sweaty on the Sig Sauer Rattler’s grips, and she let go with one hand and wiped it on her pant leg. She reminded herself that tons of the DIA guys were former operators—some even SEALs, probably, or maybe Green Berets. These guys might not be quite as combat ready or experienced as Chunk and the rest of Gold Squadron, but she was in good hands.

Just like in Benghazi. That didn’t work out so well, did it?

Another long breath.

Just when she’d managed to get her heart rate down from out of control to racing, a phone rang and she nearly pissed her pants.

“Yes?” Theobald said softly, taking the call. “Okay, thanks, Mamarad. Now just stay out of their way and hide, okay? You’ve done all you can.”

She looked over at him, eyebrows up.

“Bad guys heading up the west stairwell now. Get ready,” he said.

“We’re keeping their heads down from up here,” a voice said. Stan, she decided. A loud pop followed a heartbeat later—punctuation to his report—the sound of his sniper rifle, she assumed. “Two has the rear element to the south pulled back to the buildings on either side, so the south approach is somewhat clear. If the cavalry is stealthy, they’ll be clear coming up the center from the south.”

“Eagle, Jackal—we copy your last. We’re out of the vehicle and infilling on foot. Five mikes to Home Plate. Get ready to move.”

“Call when you’re set, Jackal,” Theobald said, and he was now standing behind Whitney, leaning against the inside wall by the door, sighting over top of her and aiming down the hall. “We’re gonna be engaged any minute.”

“Copy,” Chunk’s voice said. “Hang tough, Home Plate. We’re almost there.”

She heard the hushed voices in the hall before she saw the approaching fighters. Rough voices and shuffling feet were barely audible over the bass drum pounding in her ears.

And then she could see them . . .

Weathered terrifying-looking men. They were even more frightening in night vision—like aliens or zombies, something inhuman. They were not the color photos from briefings of beaten, angry men they’d captured or killed. Not defeated men in a cell in Guantanamo. These men moved down the hall like coiled springs—full of energy and confidence, straining to see in the dark. The one to the left, the younger one, she thought, was grinning under his thick beard. They had AK-47s and bandolier-
style magazine carriers filled with ammo over their shoulders. They wore the round brimless hats of the Pashtun.

“Two just passed me,” came Brusk’s whisper in her ear.

She wondered why he hadn’t shot them. Maybe there were more behind them?

The older one on the right, with gray in his beard and worn, leathery skin, held up a hand. She scanned him. He was wearing filthy sandals. She looked at the other one’s feet for some reason—high-top tennis shoes underneath what Riker would call a “man dress.” The older one pointed at their open door and growled something in a harsh whisper.

The young shooter raised his rifle.

How the hell could he see anything at all in the pitch black? Did a lifetime navigating the dark mountains of the Hindu Kush train his eyes? Perhaps he could see just slight variations of light and dark, and that was all he needed. Her gaze met his stare, and he seemed to be looking straight into the barrels of her night-
vision goggles. His wide-open eyes bore into hers.

The assaulter crept forward, aiming at her over his rifle.

He can’t see me, or he would have fired, she told herself.

She took in a long breath to a count of four, held it, and let it slowly out.

He couldn’t hear her breathing, right? Not from that far away, and surely not over the gunfire outside.

Her heart rate slowed.

Her mind shifted randomly and abruptly to thoughts of home.

She pictured her college roommate, for some damn reason, the one who’d gone to law school and laughed when Whitney confessed she was considering going to work for the CIA. She thought of her old boss, Reed Lewis, her friends at NCTC, and having drinks in the bars in Georgetown.

The Taliban fighters advanced relentlessly, leaning forward and straining to see in the dark.

She knew she shouldn’t, but she closed her eyes and breathed another long, slow breath. She imagined Chunk leaning over her shoulder, coaching her how to shoot like a SEAL. Centered as best she could, she opened her eyes and tried to place the dancing green dot on the center of the fighter’s chest . . . she tightened her grip on her rifle and put tension on the trigger with her shaking index finger.

I won’t be taken. Not here. Not like this.

She squeezed.

A blinding flash whitewashed her night vision, and the rifle kicked painfully into her shoulder because she’d let the pressure drift. When her goggles refreshed, the older shooter stumbled backward, but she realized immediately she had missed him, and he was reacting to the flash of her rifle. He quickly recovered and surged forward, his rifle going up and spitting white light at her. She blew out another shaking breath and squeezed again, pressing her shoulder into the buttstock. This time her bullet found a target—not in the center of his chest where she had been aiming, but just above his knee, which he grabbed as he pitched forward. Before she could bring herself to shoot again, there was a crack from above—Theobald, standing over her—and the man’s head coughed up a cloud of gray and black, and he crumpled onto the floor.

The younger fighter, covered in blood spatter, screamed something.

She wanted to take a moment and assess what it felt like to have helped kill someone. But she couldn’t, because the young terrorist was screaming and firing his weapon at her, the bright white muzzle flashes washing out her NVGs. She didn’t know what the bullets were hitting, but they didn’t seem to be hitting her. She put the green dot on the head of the boy, who was now pedaling backward while he fired wildly, spraying the walls and doors of the hallway. But before she could pull the trigger, Theobald fired again. The bullet tore off the left side of the terrorist’s forehead, and he collapsed.

Without warning, the hotel room exploded with light and glass and screams from Yi.

“The technical has us,” Theobald shouted. “They saw the muzzle flashes,” he added and dove beside her, just as gunfire erupted anew from down the hall, putting them in a multilevel crossfire. Whitney pulled her head down behind the furniture, her brain screaming that that was stupid, because 7.62 rounds would go right through the dresser made of particleboard like a hot knife through butter, but she cowered anyway, driven by reflex. The hotel room windows were completely blown out now, but plaster and paint continued to rain down on her as the deadly machine gun three stories below searched for the proper angle to hit them.

“Jackal is two mikes out,” came Chunk’s voice in her ear. “Hang in there.”

“Home Plate is pinned down,” Theobald shouted from beside her and, a split second later, echoed in her earpiece.

“This is Eagle One—second wave heading in, boss. Get off the third floor now if you can.”

She fired again at the same moment that Theobald discharged two bursts. The insurgent dropped his rifle and fell to his knees clutching his neck, eyes wide in terror.

“We’re moving out in thirty seconds, one way or the other. Plan is to exfil down the stairs on the east side, though the service area, and out the back. Eagle Two should move now. Eagle One lay down heavy fire. When we hit the exit door, fire grenades, then rope down to join us.”

“Home Plate, Eagle Two—I’m gonna hold cover on the roof and rope down with One. We need two pairs of eyes up here until the last second.”

The DIA operative’s voice sounded so calm, like he was talking about who should stop for beer on the way to the cookout. How did one become such a man?

A double click from Theobald acknowledged the rooftop plan.

Another fighter moved in from behind the man she’d just shot—or maybe missed—and this killer fired over his fallen body. The round whistled past her left ear.

“Home Plate, Jackal—call your movement. We’ll hit the Tali shooters at the south corner and cover your exit. On your mark, bro.”

A fresh barrage from the technical outside made Whitney cringe.

She fired her rifle down the hall at a shifting shadow, but it didn’t matter.

They were coming for her, and nobody was getting out of here alive.