Al Mak Nimir Bridge
Khartoum, Sudan
March 21, 12:15 p.m.
Castillo felt the terrorist’s bullet nick the top of his shoulder strap as it screamed past. Had it been three inches to the left, it would have plowed through his neck and he’d be a gurgling, suffocating pile of useless flesh, bleeding out on the pavement. Castillo was the better shot. Only one of the 7.62-millimeter rounds fired simultaneously hit its mark, and that round had been his. Through his ROMEO optics, he watched Tango Three’s head whiplash backward and the terrorist’s body drop like felled timber.
With no time to savor his win in the duel of long guns, Castillo whirled counterclockwise and unleashed a barrage of covering fire at the dump truck—firing five rounds in rapid succession at the row of shooters in the bed. Only one of his rounds scored a hit, but the salvo accomplished its primary objective of forcing the enemy shooters down.
Shoot and move, the Delta operator inside reminded him, and Castillo got his legs churning.
Trigger squeeze.
Trigger squeeze.
He pinged two more rounds off the dumper’s tailgate as he charged toward their Land Cruiser, which had crashed into a silver sedan, plowing it into the back corner of the dump truck. The Land Cruiser’s wheels spun in place—burning rubber and squealing terribly—confirming in Castillo’s mind that Shaker was dead, the weight of his lifeless right foot still depressing the accelerator. In his peripheral vision, he saw both Junior and Ani up and moving in hunched crouches toward cover.
Trigger squeeze.
Trigger squeeze.
“That’s right, keep your heads down, assholes,” he growled, firing more suppression rounds as he closed on the Land Cruiser. Five strides later, he was crouched at the rear bumper under the Land Cruiser’s still open tailgate, which he now used as a very handy bulletproof awning. In the lull, the four remaining terrorist shooters reengaged, taking pot shots at the Land Cruiser and the silver pickup truck, behind which Junior and Ani now sheltered.
“Two, One—sitrep?” he called to Junior.
“We’re both intact, you?” came the spook’s reply.
“Intact and pissed off.”
“You got a plan?”
“Yeah, I’m going to frag these motherfuckers. I need covering fire,” he said, pulling out one of the two grenades he’d pocketed.
“Check. On your mark,” Junior said.
Castillo took a deep breath and listened to the cadence of the enemy fire. When the pattern lost its rhythm, he gave the order.
“Now!”
The crack of Junior’s Sig to his right interrupted the enemy fire. Castillo exhaled, pulled the pin, and stepped out of cover. It had been ages since he’d thrown a grenade and it showed. His toss sailed over the top of the high-walled bed of the dump truck, off the side of the bridge, and detonated in midair as it plummeted to the river below.
“Shit, too much,” he murmured, ducking back under the raised tailgate.
“You put too much on it,” Junior echoed. “Wanna go again?”
“Yeah, but this time instead of trying to sink a three-pointer, I’m going in for a layup.”
“What?”
“Just cover me . . . on my mark. Three . . . two . . . one . . . covering fire,” he said, and a split second later he heard Junior go to work.
“God, I hate basketball,” he mumbled, ducking around the other side of the Land Cruiser and taking off in a sprint.
Instead of trying to make a lob, he ran straight at the dump truck. As he passed the Land Cruiser’s driver’s-side door, he pulled the pin. With a leaping stride, he catapulted himself up onto the hood of the silver sedan. His booted foot put a crater in the sheet metal as he did his best Michael Jordan impersonation and delivered the frag to the hoop—the hoop in this case being the bed of the dump truck. He traded wide-eyed stares with one of the terrorists who’d popped up in the exact moment he delivered the goods, too late recognition flashing in the man’s eyes at what had just happened.
Castillo came down awkwardly, one foot landing on the hood but the other missing, and he tumbled into the narrow gap between the side of the sedan and the dump truck. He bounced off the side of one of the Arocs’ massive rubber tires as he fell and hit the pavement hard. Above him, the grenade detonated inside the bed of the dump truck with a terrible, resonating clang—the explosive force magnified in the five-sided heavy steel box that forced the blast in only one direction—up. Debris, weapons, body parts, and blood rained down on him like some hellish, gory squall from above.
“Oh, hell, yeah!” Junior shouted in Castillo’s ear. “That was incredible, dude.”
“Did I get all of them?” Castillo groaned, his right shoulder and left ankle both barking mad with pain. He was rolling onto his side to reengage with his rifle if anyone had escaped the blast.
“You got ’em, all right,” the spook came back. “Now let’s get the hell out of here while we still can.”
Castillo got to a knee and brought his 716 up to scan overhead, just in case one or more of the enemy shooters survived. But, when no heads or rifles appeared over the sidewall of the dumper bed, he lowered his weapon and limped his way back to the Land Cruiser. Junior and Ani showed up a moment later, both sighting the bed and cab of the dump truck with an abundance of caution.
“Help me with this,” Castillo said to Junior and opened the driver’s-side door to the horror show inside. Shaker’s slumped body fell as the door swung open, but Junior caught the dead man before he could tumble out. Blood and chunks of gore decorated the cabin—splatter on the driver’s-side window, door panel, instrument cluster, and windshield.
“Oh, my God,” Ani said behind them.
“Don’t look,” Junior said. “Just keep covering the dump truck.”
The roar of the Land Cruiser’s engine went quiet and the wheels stopped spinning as Shaker’s right foot came off the accelerator. Junior grunted as he pulled the Sudanese man out of the vehicle and onto the road. Castillo grabbed Shaker’s legs and together they carried the corpse to the cargo compartment and closed the tailgate.
“I’ll drive,” Castillo said, slipping into the driver’s seat while Ani and Junior both climbed into the back.
Ignoring the blood and other bits, Castillo put the Land Cruiser’s transmission into reverse and backed clear of the silver sedan whose occupants were either hiding or had run away. Over the course of the firefight, most of the civilian vehicles had fled—leaving only those that were damaged or boxed in. To Castillo’s relief, the path in the left lane around the dump truck was now clear. He floored the accelerator and the Land Cruiser took off south, leaving smoldering carnage straight out of Mad Max on the bridge in the rearview mirror.
“Homeplate, One—come in,” Castillo said, querying McCoy. “Homeplate, One—do you copy?”
When no reply came, he met Junior’s gaze in the mirror.
“I think he lost comms,” the spook said. “I thought I heard him drop out during the firefight.”
“Call his mobile.”
“Roger that,” Junior said, pulling his own mobile from his pocket.
“I got a bad feeling about this,” Castillo said through gritted teeth. “I think they hit the safe house, too.”
“Oh, my God,” Ani breathed behind him. Castillo looked at her in the rearview mirror and what he saw concerned him. The CIA officer was shaking with emotion. She was an experienced undercover operative for Clandestine Services—which meant she probably hadn’t discharged her weapon in a real gun battle. And she had certainly never experienced the heat of battle the likes of which they’d just survived—a Task Force Green level firefight for certain.
“You good, kid?” he asked.
She met his eyes in the mirror, her own haunted with images he knew, from experience, would likely be with her the rest of her life.
“I . . .” She looked back down into her lap.
“You did great, Ani,” he said. “You saved our lives today.”
“Not . . . not everyone,” she said, her voice cracking, tossing a glance over her shoulder toward the rear cargo area where Shaker’s body lay.
Castillo understood, but also knew he needed her sharp. This wasn’t over by a long shot.
“War is like this, Ani. Things happen and they’re not our fault. You performed where ninety-nine percent of people would freeze or run. I mean it when I say we are alive because of you. But we have more work to do. We have two more teammates in trouble and I need you sharp. These assholes don’t get to kill any more of us today.”
“Okay,” she said, her jaw twitching as she clutched her weapon in her lap.
Junior leaned over, pulling her toward him, forehead to forehead as she clung to the spook’s forearm and closed her eyes. He whispered something to her, too quiet for Castillo to hear. She sobbed and he whispered something else and she nodded. Then she looked up again, a new confidence and fire in her eyes.
“She’s good, Charley,” Junior said, giving him a curt nod and knowing look in the mirror.
Castillo scanned the road in both directions as he exited the bridge still heading south. Sirens screamed toward them from the west, heading for what would now be assumed to be a terrorist attack on the Al Mak Nimir Bridge. The investigators weren’t going to find much evidence to piece together.
Two blocks in, the traffic was already heavy. Castillo turned east on Al Jamhuriya Avenue, accelerating east to pick up the faster-moving four-lane road a few blocks away.
“Can you access the satellite feed, Junior?” he asked, looking again in the mirror and this time seeing Junior already tapping away on his tablet.
“Working on it,” the spook said.
Castillo turned right, cutting off a delivery truck who answered with a blast of his horn and a shaking fist out his window. The four lanes, with extra lanes for major turns, allowed him to accelerate rapidly, weaving in and out of the much lighter traffic. They would be at the safe house in minutes now.
“Got it,” Junior said, triumphantly. “Had to clear my head and recall the access code and double password that they . . .” the spook stopped.
Castillo glanced in the rearview where the man raised his eyes from his tablet, mouth open. “Oh, shit, dude.”
Ani leaned in and looked at the tablet.
“What is it?” Castillo barked, eyes on the road and pressing down on the accelerator.
“You’re right—they fucking hit the safe house. Our other Land Cruiser is still there. I got heavy smoke rolling out of the front door. I show only two shooters outside, holding a perimeter on the driveway near the house. No other motion, but there could be shooters inside. They came in two SUVs, so could be up to a dozen guys we’re up against.”
Castillo tightened his jaw and let out a long breath. Then he thought of the bodies left behind by McCoy in Cairo.
“Not if McCoy was still in the house when they came,” he predicted. “Our guy is a one-man killing machine.”
“True that,” Junior said with a grin and a nod. “And if they killed or captured our guys already, they’d be gone. McCoy must still be in the fight.”
“Then God help them all,” Castillo said, now grinning for real. They would be there in just a few more minutes. He had weaved his way back to Street 60 southbound.
One more turn . . .
“Junior,” Castillo called out, his mind assembling an order of battle already. “Come up here.”
Junior squeezed between the seats, landing awkwardly in the passenger seat and turning to look at him, the tablet in his lap.
“What’re ya thinkin’, boss?”
He approached the turn, headed east, then pulled abruptly to a stop along the curb.
“Take the wheel,” he said, grabbing the tablet and squirming between the front seats to drop into the passenger-side middle captain’s chair beside Ani. “When we get there, don’t even slow down,” he said. “Looks like the gate is already open so plow right up to the house, bending left as you do. After I drop those two assholes out front, follow me into the house.”
“I’ll be on your right,” Ani confirmed, no hesitation in her voice at all. “Junior, stay left.”
“You guys know standard room-clearing procedures?” Castillo asked, picking up his Sig 716 and replacing the magazine with a fresh one.
“I kind of remember from the Farm . . .” Ani’s response confirmed what he would be working with. But both spooks had drive and smarts. And they were highly motivated.
“Okay,” Castillo said. “Pay attention. I enter first, and I’ll turn left, clearing my left rear corner and the dining room to the left. You follow right on me, clearing right. Junior will surge straight in between us, and we clear and fall in on him, repeating it in the great room to the rear. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Ani said, and he believed she did.
“Kill anything that isn’t McCoy or Wardi. You good with that?”
“Oh, I’m all good with that,” Ani said.
Good. Harness that rage, girl.
They were a block away now.
Castillo rolled his head and took a long, slow breath. A moment later, the SUV was in the turn, bouncing over the dip at the end of the driveway, moving fast toward the house. He opened the door, positioned his rifle on the roof, and pressed his cheek against the stock, sighting on one of two enemy shooters flanking the front door. As predicted, both men began firing, but at the windshield on the driver’s side, their barrage of bullets plinking off the hood and frame and starring the ballistic glass. His first round dropped the shooter in his tracks. His second caught the right-side fighter in the chest, spinning him around. The man stumbled to his knees, and Castillo lined up his second shot carefully, putting a 7.62 round through the back of the man’s head.
Both men were dead when the Land Cruiser braked to a stop.
Castillo was already on the brick pavers, rounding the hood of the truck and sprinting to the door.
“Tight on me,” he commanded over his shoulder.
Thin smoke billowed from the wrecked doorway, the door itself part of the debris on the front stoop and in the hazy foyer, he assumed. His breathing controlled and steady, Castillo entered the foyer sighting over his rifle. He crossed the threshold and swept left, clearing the corner and then the dining room. Without seeing her, he felt Ani enter behind him.
Dead bodies littered the floor—two on the left, one in the dining room, and another in the short hallway leading to the great room. He surged forward while chopping a hand right for Junior to circle around and flank whoever might be waiting for them in the kitchen. Castillo’s pulse pounded in his temples, not from the adrenaline of combat—years of killing had numbed him to that—but from a visceral fear for the lives of McCoy and Wardi. He cleared quickly left, saw a body on the floor, then pressed forward. At the same time, a man stepped out of the doorway leading to the basement, his eyes going wide and mouth open in surprise as he came face to face with Castillo. The shooter’s weapon made it up barely thirty degrees before Castillo’s round tore off the side of his head. Junior’s rifle roared from behind him dropping a second assaulter coming up behind the first.
He nodded to Junior, then felt Ani tap him on the shoulder as he stepped over the bodies, leading the descent down the stairs into the basement.
Please, God, if you ever listen to operators like me, let McCoy have made it into the panic room . . .
Three quick turns confirmed the basement was clear and he was beside the bank vault–style door, the black glass plate red, the door magnetically locked.
Castillo smiled at Junior.
“They made it,” he sighed. “They’re inside.”
“Oh, thank God,” Ani breathed from behind him.
Junior pressed his hand onto the glass and punched in his code. The door clicked and hissed as the compressed air inside escaped.
“Don’t shoot, Killer,” Castillo hollered, not wanting to get shot by his boy. “It’s us. We’re coming in.”
The heavy door swung open.
McCoy sat cross-legged on the floor beside Wardi, who opened his eyes briefly, then smiled and let out a long, pained laugh. “I knew you would come, my friend.”
“We’re here, Wardi,” Junior said, taking a knee beside his man, inspecting the needle assembly that Castillo recognized as a catheter decompression set up for a pneumothorax.
“What the hell took you so long?” McCoy asked, taking a sip of water from the bottle cradled in his lap.
“Stopped for drinks,” Castillo said with a grin.
“Well,” McCoy said, as he grunted and got to his feet, “I hope you brought me one.”
Castillo stared at the Marine, remembering the dead bodies scattered around the upstairs of the house. The kid really was living up to his inherited nickname.
“I’m just glad you guys are okay,” McCoy said, sticking out a hand.
“Back atcha,” Castillo said. “Let’s get the hell out of here and get Wardi to some decent care.”
“CIA safe house is not far away. They’re expecting us,” Junior said. “I already got it coordinated.”
“Of course you did,” McCoy said, pulling the spook in for a bro hug.