36: A Novel (21 page)

I stepped back into the hall and watched as she unloaded the bags.  Most of what she’d bought went into the fridge or freezer, but there were a few items that she stored in a cabinet.

“You’re in luck,” she said, gently squeezing the outside of a large container of ice cream.  “It’s still firm.”

I almost made a sarcastic remark about anything that was in her hand being firm, but stopped myself before the words came out.  She might appreciate my juvenile humor, or she might get pissed off and make things hard for me.  When I thought the word
hard
, right after the thought I’d just had, I tried and failed to suppress a snort of laughter.

“What?”  She asked, looking over her shoulder at me, the ice cream still in her hand.

“Nothing,” I said.  “Just something I was thinking about.”

I was trying to wipe a grin off my face, but after all the tension since she’d walked into the apartment, I was ready for some relief and it wouldn’t go away.  She was apparently as sharp as I’d thought, for it didn’t take long for things to click.  With a roll of her eyes, she put the container in the freezer and turned to face me.

“Don’t be a child,” she chastised me, sounding only half serious.  “Now, will you trust me to go to the bathroom by myself?”

I stepped back and made a grand gesture for her to walk down the narrow hall.  She shook her head, probably thinking I was an immature child in an adult’s body as she pushed past me.

While she took care of her personal business, I sat on the sofa and checked the iPad.  Forty minutes and eleven seconds.  Switching views to the building layout, I reviewed the path I would take to apartment 2C.  The diagram included measurements and I did some quick math.  It should take me between thirty and forty seconds to reach the target once I walked out this door.

I wanted to be standing outside 2C’s door when it opened for the first asshole to walk out.  That meant I needed to leave when the timer showed one-minute remaining.  That would give me about a twenty second margin of error.  Any earlier, and I risked being seen by another resident who would probably call in a report to the cops.  Any later and I might not be in place on time.

Sitting there, I played out what I was going to do in my head.  Mentally pictured how I would enter the residence.  Recalled the two faces of the men that carried pistols.  They were potentially the greatest threats, assuming I was correct and the rifles would have been packed away already.  Reminded myself that if the woman the apartment was leased to was present in any state other than bound and gagged, I had to treat her as a hostile.

“That’s really gross.”

The woman’s voice interrupted my thoughts and I turned to see her standing in the hall outside the bathroom door.

“What?”

“Flush the damn toilet and put the seat down after you use it.  Jesus!”

“Sorry.  Thought I was alone,” I said.

“If you go again before you leave, just try to remember.  OK?”

I nodded, watching her grasp the suitcase handle and drag it into the bedroom.  Standing, I walked down the hall and looked in as she struggled to lift it onto the bed.  It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her after her conversation with Johnson, but trusting and keeping an eye on what someone is doing aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive.

“Want some help?”  I asked, leaning a shoulder against the door jam.

“Got it,” she grunted, swinging it up and letting it flop onto the mattress.

“What’s your name?”  I asked as she opened the latches and raised the lid.

“Why?  Going to ask me out?”

She was facing away from me as she spoke, looking down into the bag.  I could hear the sarcasm loud and clear and suspected there was an impish grin on her face.

“No.  You’re too high maintenance,” I said, deliberately sending a jab in her direction.

“You have no idea,” she said, refusing to take the bait.

I stood there for a few more minutes, watching her unpack.  Several of the items she pulled out intrigued me and I couldn’t help but imagine what she’d look like wearing them.  Realizing I was getting distracted, I pushed away from the door and returned to the living room. 

Resuming my seat on the sofa, I checked the time then made another study of the target apartment’s floor plan.  The front door opened into a living room that was about half again as large as the one I was sitting in.  A kitchen abutted it, a bar height counter separating the two spaces. 

Just like this apartment, a short hall led to a bedroom, but this one would be considered a master and had its own bathroom instead of one in the hall.  A small, walk-in closet was to the right of the door into the bath, and sliding glass doors let out onto a tiny balcony that overlooked the parking lot.

Another hall, opposite the kitchen, led to a bathroom and two bedrooms.  The bath was on the right, back wall matched up against the back wall of the master bath.  The two bedrooms were both on the left, their doors bracketing the entrance to the bathroom so that there was a left door, right door then left door as one progressed down the hall.  It ended at a wall of cabinets, probably shallow and only good for storing linens.  Or weapons, I reminded myself.

“What are you looking at?”

I jumped when she spoke from right next to me.  She’d walked up, silent in her bare feet, and was peering over my shoulder at the iPad.  After I’d left her alone she had changed clothes, trading the skirt and blouse for a pair of shorts and a stained T-shirt that could only have been Army issue.  It didn’t flatter her figure, but looked very comfortable and well worn.  Her hair was up in a tight ponytail and her face was scrubbed clean of makeup.  I thought she looked beautiful.

“Floor plan of the apartment where the terrorists are,” I said, not seeing any reason to lie or refuse to answer.

“That’s a lot of blind corners and rooms,” she observed.  “How many of them are in there?”

“Eight,” I answered.  “Plus one unknown.”

“You’re going up against nine on your own?  That’s nuts,” she said, moving around and sitting in a chair with her legs tucked underneath her ass.

“Probably,” I said, nodding.  “But that’s the job.”

“You know how many times I heard that in Iraq?  From guys who were about to go out and get their legs blown off or a bullet through the head?”

“A lot,” I said, remembering that it was a well worn phrase in my infantry platoon.

“Too much,” she said, a far off look in her eyes as she remembered the war.

I didn’t have anything to say to that, so resumed studying the floor plan to ensure it was clearly embedded in my memory.  Over and over, I pictured myself walking through the apartment.  Visualized the lanes of fire that would be available to me as well as the terrorists.  Worried about the hall with the two bedrooms.  Hoped all of them would be gathered in the living room, but didn’t count on that being the case.

A final review of the path to the target location, and I closed the diagrams and placed the iPad on the table.  All that was showing was the timer app.  Eight minutes, eleven seconds.  That meant I was walking out the door in seven minutes, eleven seconds.  There was nothing to do other than wait.

Fishing the stocking cap out of my pocket, I put it on my head.  Before I walked out into the open I’d pull the mask over my face.  Another check of my weapons under her watchful eye, and I still had five minutes to go.

“You were over there, weren’t you,” she said after I’d made sure my rifle was ready to go.

“Two tours in Iraq,” I said.

I probably shouldn’t have told her that.  But what did it matter?  Who could she tell?  In less than five minutes I’d walk out her door and never see her again.

“Didn’t get enough death while you were there?”

I looked at her, not sure where she was heading with the question.

“Too much,” I said.

“Then why?  I’m just curious.  How did you wind up hunting tangos?” 

“It just kind of happened,” I said.  “I didn’t go looking for the job.  It found me.”

“That’s a nice, cryptic non-answer,” she said, a smile softening her blue eyes.

“And it’s the truth.”

I stood and performed a quick check of all my weapons.  Made sure none of them were snagged or wouldn’t draw smoothly when needed.  Glancing down at the iPad I saw two minutes remaining on the timer.  One minute to walking out the door.  Checking my watch, I noted the time and shut the iPad down and put it in my pack.

“Thank you,” I said to the woman as I moved to stand next to the door.

“Good luck,” she responded, standing and unlocking the deadbolt.

She placed her hand on the knob, ready to open the door for me.  I looked into her eyes and saw something that hadn’t been there before.  Sadness.  Loss.  And a big dose of weariness.  She was tired of seeing men going off to war.  More than anyone, she probably had the right to feel that way.  I wondered how many soldiers she’d scooped off the battlefield.

I glanced at my watch.  Ten seconds.  She was watching me closely as I stood there waiting for the second hand to reach its mark.  At five seconds I pulled the mask down to cover my features.  At two seconds I took a deep breath and nodded.

“Julie Broussard.”

She told me her name as she pulled the door open.

26

The sun had set and it was dark, low wattage lights spaced along the wall providing the only illumination on the walkway.  I was on the third floor, at the opposite end of the building from the target.  Turning to my left, I headed for a set of exterior stairs, striding quietly. 

As soon as I’d stepped out of Julie’s apartment, I began counting off the seconds in my head.  I reached the landing at the top of the stairs in ten seconds.  I paused long enough to scan the area and didn’t see anyone out and about.  There was the sound of TVs playing, and somewhere close by a man and woman were arguing loudly in a language I didn’t recognize, but no one was outside their apartment at the moment.

Thirteen seconds.  I went down the stairs to the second level, turning right.  Eighteen seconds.  A long walkway in front of me, turning ninety-degrees to the right when it reached the far corner of the rectangular structure.  I walked at a fast pace, rifle in front of my body and gripped tightly, ready to be brought to my shoulder in an instant.

Twenty-seven seconds.  I reached the turn and swung to the right.  Walked past apartment 2E.  Thirty seconds and I was passing 2D.  At thirty-three seconds I came to a stop directly in front of 2C, glad to note the blinds covering the windows next to the door were tightly drawn.  I hadn’t thought about what I’d do if they hadn’t been, but didn’t dwell on the topic.

 Preparing myself, I raised the rifle and aimed at the seam where the door met the jam, two feet above the knob.  The instant that door opened, I was going to fire, and follow the bullet into the apartment.  My heart was pounding in my ears and I was thankful for the gloves.  Sweat was popping out all over and I could feel it trickling out from beneath them and running down my raised arms.

Forty-four seconds.  Sixteen to go.  My heart leapt when there was a gasp of shock from my left.  Without moving the rifle, I snapped my head around and saw a woman standing in the open door to 2D.  Frozen in place, she held a bulging plastic garbage bag in her hand as she stared at me in shock.  Shit!

“Get inside!”

I hissed the words and a moment later she jumped back and slammed her door.  Fuck!  She was probably running for the phone to call the cops.  And I’d lost count because of the distraction.

Focusing my racing mind, I maintained aim and waited.  And waited.  It felt like hours, but was actually less than ten seconds before I heard the deadbolt turn.  Leaning forward, I pulled the rifle tight against my shoulder and moved my finger onto the trigger.  One second later the knob rattled as it turned, then the door opened.

As a gap appeared, I saw a form standing in the opening.  I didn’t look any higher than the center of the chest.  In an instant I verified there wasn’t body armor protecting the target’s vital organs.  Then my finger pulled the trigger twice in quick succession and the sound suppressed rifle spat out two quiet rounds.

The figure fell back, and I paused to check the target behind him.  Seeing the next man, I went into motion.  Hitting the door with my shoulder I bulled into the room, putting three rounds into the man who had been following the one who’d opened the door.  Absently noting both of them falling to the floor, I kicked the door shut behind me and swiveled the rifle, keeping it in perfect sync with my eyes.

Four more rounds and two more bodies hit the floor.  Half way done.  Still turning, I fired as one of the faces I’d memorized as a pistol carrier came into view.  He was tearing at his shirt, trying to draw his weapon as a single round punched through his forehead.  Five down.

A man was in the kitchen, yanking open a cabinet.  Trying to reach a weapon?  I didn’t wait to find out.  He was turned away from me and I shot him in the back of the head.  Six.

I was out of targets.  Where were the other two?  Moving fast, I headed down the hall for the master bedroom.  The rifle was up and I quickly swiveled it to the side before I passed the kitchen to make sure someone wasn’t on the floor, waiting for me to show myself.  Only the body I’d put there.

Refocused on the hall, I moved quickly to the master bedroom door, which was closed.  Shifting, I put my back against the opposite wall and paused a beat.  Listening.  Loud music was coming from the other side of the cheap, hollow core slab.  So far I’d been the only one firing a weapon, and the suppressor had done a good job of keeping things quiet.

Not that the rifle was completely silent, but as I stood there listening I doubted anyone in the room could have heard the muted report over the thumping stereo.  That surprised me, but maybe it was my own cultural bias.  I hadn’t expected radical jihadists to be listening to American music.  But what the hell do I know?

Raising my leg, I lashed out with my foot, striking the flimsy door next to the knob.  The thin layers of fake wood shattered as it sprang open and I lunged forward, rifle up, seeking a target.  And immediately spotted two of them.  The woman I’d seen in my briefing, Janice Bass, was scrambling across the bed, trying to conceal her nudity with a thin sheet.