Hunt the Falcon (19 page)

He pushed the muscular body to one side. Tré helped him up.

“Fuck.”

“Can you walk, chief?”

His hands were covered with blood and shaking. The back of both legs screamed in agony. “I'll do my best.”

He hobbled over to the guard's submachine gun and the Glock he'd lost, which were lying together on the floor. Cordite burned his nostrils. Blood dripped down the back of his leg into his sneakers. The pain was horrible, but he'd been through worse.

Tré ran ahead as he limped to keep up, past the guard's body that still twitched on the floor, through the door, down four steps to a room with a cot in it. On the other side of the bed, near a door to a little bathroom, Crocker saw a square hole in the floor and a metal cover that was open and leaning against the wall.

“We need to find a light before we go down,” Tré said.

“No time!”

“Dark places freak me out.”

Crocker felt his way down the rough concrete steps that descended about twenty feet. He couldn't see shit until he reached the bottom. Starting about six feet in front of him, he saw a string of bare bulbs that partially lit the tunnel. The bulbs were connected to an orange cord and spaced roughly ten feet apart.

“Ask and you shall receive,” he whispered to Tré.

“This is better.”

The tunnel was about five feet high and four feet wide, reinforced in some places with wooden planks and cinder blocks. Two steel rails had been spiked into the compressed dirt floor. The air was stale and smelled of salt and sulfur.

“You see anyone?” Tré whispered behind him.

“Not yet.”

He moved as fast as he could, given that he had to crouch and the muscles in his legs were knotted up and damaged. Seeing a dark shape ahead, he stopped and focused. The shape turned and moved closer. He saw the flash of a weapon discharging in the distance and hit the ground. Rounds sailed over their heads and embedded themselves in the dirt.

As both men readied their guns to return fire, the lights went out.

“Sorry, Tré,” Crocker whispered.

“Bum luck.”

The two SEALs felt along the side walls, being careful not to trip over the rails. Crocker pushed himself as hard as he could, despite the warnings in his head to slow down.

Dirt got into his eye, and he stopped. Wiping it away with his wrist, he saw a white light wash the tunnel ahead. Tré grabbed his shoulder. Kneeling on the dirt floor, Crocker aimed the Uzi and squeezed off a long salvo. A yelp of pain echoed back.

“I think you got one,” Tré whispered.

Crocker: “You run ahead. You're faster!”

Tré bolted. Crocker used every ounce of energy and focus he had left in him to follow. More shots whizzed past. He stumbled, fell, got up, and resumed limping. Tré returned fire. He heard muffled shouting.

The light source was now only a few feet ahead, creating ghoulish shadows that shifted and danced against the walls. Men were grappling on the floor, and then a large shadow rose and hurried down the tunnel. Crocker pushed himself to catch up and saw a dead man lying on his side still holding a flashlight, his dark eyes staring into space.

Stepping over a pool of blood that was seeping into the earth, he felt his way along the wall. Each gunshot ahead produced another little rush of adrenaline. His hearing was hypersensitive and he was running on fumes, growing weaker from the pain and loss of blood.

He heard men grunting in English and Farsi, and recognized Tré's voice exclaiming “Motherfucker!” Then came the sound of a knife slicing into flesh and cartilage. A groan. Someone rose slowly in the dark. He saw the glint of a knife in one hand, a pistol in the other. Stopping, he held his breath as his heart beat a tight pattern in his chest.

“Chief?”

“Tré.”

“Two of 'em down. One more to go.”

As Tré continued forward, Crocker wanted to utter some congratulation or encouragement, but the words wouldn't come out. He leaned against the wall and tried to will his body forward. More gunshots echoed. Then he saw a white flash and heard the thud of something louder. The walls shook; wooden planks and dirt fell from the ceiling.

He covered his head with his hands as debris showered over him. Just when he thought he was going to be buried, it stopped. But he was trapped, cut off, blinded, and having trouble breathing. Dirt and dust clogged his mouth and nostrils.

He pulled off his shirt and tied it over his nose and mouth. Then he got up onto his hands and knees and clawed his way up a mound of dirt. A plank fell and hit his back. He pushed it aside, then felt for an opening. Finding a fist-sized hole, he burrowed his hand through, then dug around it furiously until the ends of his fingers were starting to bleed.

When the hole was three feet wide, he managed to get his left shoulder through, and pushed and squirmed until he got stuck. So he took a deep breath, pulled out, and dug some more. This time he paused a moment to gather his strength, inserted his head and shoulder, then wiggled through to the other side and rolled down the pile of rocks and dirt to the floor of the tunnel.

Crocker still had trouble breathing because the air was clogged with dust, and he was covered with scratches and dirt. Through the mist he saw a diffused light and heard a groan.

He wasn't aware that he was moving until he stumbled over something and caught himself before he fell.

Then suddenly he was wrestling with a man who was quick and wiry, and had hot pungent breath. The man dug his nails into Crocker's biceps while reaching for something with his other hand. On the ground Crocker saw the outline of a knife in the murk. The shape reminded him of the KA-BAR he'd been given on graduation from BUD/S, with a seven-inch blade made of 1095 steel. But that one had a SEAL trident engraved on one side and the name of a SEAL who had died in combat on the other. The one he saw now had an aluminum grip instead of a leather one.

He heard Tré moaning and caught a glimpse of him beyond the man, holding his right shoulder.

He saw a gleam in his adversary's eye as his fingers tightened around the hunting knife. His face was covered with thick black whiskers. His bared teeth were long and uneven.

Crocker thrust his head forward and bit into the man's neck. He responded by smashing Crocker on the side of the head with his fist. His other hand still held the knife, which now flashed in the tight space. Before he had a chance to thrust it into Crocker's flesh, Crocker drove the heel of his hand into the man's Adam's apple once, twice, a third time, until he crushed the man's windpipe. His assailant emitted a last cry before going limp.

“I think we did it, Tré. I think we stopped them.”

He repeated the words in his head like a mantra as he dragged Tré forward another hundred yards, then slung him onto his shoulder and climbed a set of concrete steps. His head hit something metal that stunned him briefly. It felt like a door. He pushed, swung it open, stuck his head through. Breathing hard and blinking, he saw what looked like an office with two metal desks and a potted ficus tree by the window.

He lifted Tré through the opening, sat him down in one of the brown leather chairs, and flipped on a halogen desk lamp. The room seemed to contain nothing personal, not even a calendar or a framed photo, just a travel poster for Vail, Colorado, on the wall. In the top drawer of one of the desks he found a manila envelope. Inside the envelope he found nine credit cards, four driver's licenses, a map, and a set of keys.

Crocker used the little energy he had left to pick up one of the phones and dial the number he had committed to memory. A woman's voice answered. “Yes?”

“This is 34266. I need an immediate ERS.”

“Hold on while I trace your location.”

“Okay,” she said thirty seconds later. “Hang up.”

Minutes later, tires screeched outside and car doors slammed. He unlocked the door to admit two big men with short hair, drawn pistols, and bulletproof vests under their suit jackets. One of them had a marine corps logo and “Semper fidelis” tattooed on his neck.

“34266?” the man asked.

“Yeah. Nice tat.”

Crocker noted his reflection in the window and was reminded of a rescued miner, covered from head to toe with dirt, bleeding from his hands and one shoulder.

The men carried Tré. He felt fresh air on his face and saw yellow streetlights and the outlines of glass buildings.

“Where the hell are we?” he asked as he was being helped into a black SUV.

“You're in an office park, sir, in El Paso, Texas.”

H
e sat
next to Holly with a bucket of popcorn in his lap. On the screen in front of them the villain in the metal mask sneered at the hero, causing spit to fly out of his mouth. The visceral hatred behind his words made Crocker clench his fists.

Then bullets started to fly, the chase started, and the volume in the theater grew until it hurt his head so much he felt like screaming. The sound of tires screeching, the grinding of metal against metal, bullets firing, ricocheting—it was too real.

He became the man in the black cape running, sweating, dodging bullets. His blood pressure and heartbeat shot up.

Crocker, feeling pain emanating from his hands and realizing what was happening, craned to look back at the exit and, turning to Holly, whispered, “I'll be right back.”

He hurried up the aisle, through the double doors, and found the men's room, which was cold and smelled of ammonia. He scanned beneath the stalls, the urinals, and sinks to check whether anyone was there. When the door swung open, he turned and instinctively scanned the heavy man's face and body. He wore a plaid shirt and looked soft and unarmed. Crocker knew that if he had to, he could take him easily.

Their eyes met. He balled his fist and waited for the man to reach for a weapon. Instead, the man turned abruptly and left.

Crocker zipped down his fly, did his business, and exited. In the lobby he paused for a moment, trying to decide whether to buy a bottle of water from the concession stand and rejoin Holly or wait. He decided to step into the mall, where there was more space.

He sat on a bench listening to Elton John's “Circle of Life” play over the mall's PA system, considering the actual warfare and havoc he'd witnessed in places like Afghanistan, Somalia, and Iraq, and thinking about how experiences burn into your brain and are hard to expunge.

Images of fallen and maimed teammates flashed in his head. As he tried to remember their names, he looked up and saw Holly walking toward him with a confused expression on her face. She'd gained weight while he was out of the country, which made her look softer. She was as beautiful as ever, but older.

“You okay?” Holly asked, her dark hair glistening in the light.

“I'm fine. The noise started to bother my ears.”

“But you missed the ending.”

He took her arm in his. “Let's get something to drink.”

She cuddled next to him as if they were teenagers, and they walked past Banana Republic, American Eagle, Victoria's Secret, and all the other so-called high-end stores—each in its own way offering some kind of escape from the ordinary. It seemed to Crocker that they only underlined the banality of their customers' lives.

“Why can't they just sell shit and leave it at that?” Crocker mused as they sat down across from each other in the food court, sipping their cold drinks—a Dos Equis in his case, a Diet Coke for her.

There was a vagueness in her eyes that he attributed to the Prozac she was taking.

“What's really bothering you, Tom?” Holly asked.

“Nothing.”

He wanted to tell her about what had happened on the tarmac in Foz do Iguaçu, the underground prison in Barinas, and the tunnel under Ciudad Juárez, but knowing that she was struggling with her own PTSD issues, he stopped.

Recently his mood had been vacillating between defensiveness, anger, and aggression. After a harrowing mission like the one he'd just been on, his return to civilian life often followed the same pattern: Initially there was excitement about being home and deep appreciation of the simple pleasures of being alive. But after a week or two that hyperawareness would start to morph into a critical view of the world around him and a sense of unease. The pretty female reporter on the sidelines of a football game who he'd considered fun and sexy turned into someone vain, self-important, and predatory. The commentators became vile and greedy manipulators.

He saw the worst in people, and even put thoughts in their heads. He was sure they didn't appreciate the freedoms they enjoyed. They even made fun of people like him who were fighting to protect them, and this put him on edge. It made him long to escape the artificial world and return to the reality of battle, carnage, and aggression, which is how he felt now.

Trouble was, his CO had given the men of Black Cell six weeks of R&R, and only three had elapsed. So Crocker did what he usually did when he was filled with excess energy—he trained. Even though his legs and back hadn't fully healed, he started every morning with a ten-mile run through the woods with Brando, then drove to ST-6 headquarters, ran the obstacle course a couple of times, and took target practice for an hour. After dinner he went to the gym and lifted weights.

Still feeling unsettled, he went to see his CO, Captain Sutter, and told him he was ready to deploy.

“Come back in three weeks and we'll talk,” Sutter said bluntly.

“I'm ready now, sir,” Crocker insisted.

“No, you're not.”

Sutter ordered him to see the team psychologist, Dr. Petrovian, a jovial guy with a pink face and round wire-rimmed glasses.

“What's on your mind?” Petrovian asked.

Crocker didn't want to talk about himself but knew Sutter would be on him if he didn't. “So,” he said, “I've been a little on edge. The last mission we went on was intense. A number of my guys got hurt.”

“I heard you were interrogated and tortured. How do you feel about that?”

“Angry.”

“How did the loss of control affect you?”

“I wanted it back.”

“Are you afraid of being captured again?”

“It's the third time it's happened. I'm getting used to it. Not really.”

“Are you worried that you won't be sent on more missions?”

“No. But I'm dying to finish this one!”

Petrovian nodded, then cleaned his glasses on the front of his button-down shirt. “You say you're on edge. Does that mean you're having trouble sleeping?”

“I'm having trouble sitting still.”

Petrovian was aware of Crocker's aversion to medication, so he administered the same psych evaluation Crocker had taken before, with the usual stupid questions, then recommended meditation. So three times a day—after his morning run, after he returned from shooting at the range, and just before going to bed—Crocker sat alone in a dark room with a candle burning and listened to the flow of thoughts in his head. He didn't try to stop or control them, he just listened.

What he learned was: One, he had a burning desire to find Alizadeh and kill the son of a bitch. Two, he was disappointed in Holly. Even though he loved her deeply, she wasn't as available to him as before, and he needed her, which bothered him. And three, he spent a lot of time fantasizing about Mercedes, who had e-mailed him a picture of herself standing with her back to the camera on a beach at sunset, wearing a bikini. Under the photo was the message: “Happy New Year! XOXO, M.”

The meditation helped him focus. It also got him out of his own head.

He called his sister, who had been leaving messages for him at the house telling him she was worried about their dad. When he called his father, he sounded good. They talked about the Redskins making the NFL playoffs and the benefit his dad was organizing for the VFW.

“You still friends with that woman?” Crocker asked.

“You mean Carla?”

“Yeah, Carla. How did things work out with her landlord?”

“She moved into another apartment.”

“How does she like the new one?”

“She likes it a lot. Why?”

He didn't feel right about grilling his father or asking if he was giving Carla money—which is what his sister was worried about—so he let it go.

Next he went to visit Ritchie, who'd just returned from three weeks at Johns Hopkins Medical Center in Baltimore, where he'd had reconstructive surgery on his face and jaw. Ritchie was excited that in another two days he'd be able to eat solid food.

“I'm dying to sink my new teeth into a burger and fries,” he said. “I think about it, even more than sex.”

Crocker was glad to see that Ritchie's outlook was positive and his face had almost healed. Except for some discoloration in the skin they had grafted from his ass and tightness under his jaw, he looked the same.

“Is it okay if I call you butt-face from now on?” Crocker joked as he left.

“You can call me whatever you want. Just call.”

Cal was in Sacramento visiting his sister. Akil was snorkeling somewhere in the Caribbean with his German girlfriend. Tré was convalescing at his parents' home in D.C. Mancini was busy replacing the roof on his garage.

When Davis's very pregnant wife saw Crocker standing at the door of their blue and white split-level, concern quickly crossed her face. “You taking him away again?” she asked.

“No, it's a social visit,” Crocker answered, shivering in the cold.

The two SEALs bundled up Davis's one-year-old son, took him to a nearby playground, and loaded him into a swing.

“How's it going?” Crocker asked.

“Better,” Davis said as he pushed his son, who screamed with delight every time the swing ascended. “I had a hard time…back there.”

“Barinas?”

“Yeah.” His blue eyes seemed even bluer than before.

“It's perfectly natural in our line of work to get scared shitless sometimes,” Crocker said.

“You ever think about the people you kill?” Davis asked.

Crocker didn't like to admit it, and he never mentioned it to other members of his team, but sometimes he felt a kind of kinship and almost a little sympathy for the men he battled. Not sick bastards like Alizadeh, who terrorized, maimed, and murdered innocents, but common soldiers and guards like the two he and Tré had killed in the store in Juárez.

“Yeah,” Crocker said.

“Me, too.”

Alex Rinehart's grandmother descended the basement steps of her brick colonial house and found her grandson seated at a desk in front of the window. His brow deeply furrowed in concentration, he studied an open book and scribbled something into a spiral notebook.

She set the tray with a glass of nonfat milk and a plate of freshly baked Toll House cookies beside him and read the title of the book—
Advanced Quantum Physics Workbook.

“My,” she gushed. “Is this something you're studying for school?”

Alex looked up at her and smiled with a look of pure love that touched her heart.

“Oh, Alex!” she exclaimed, ruffling his unruly dark hair and hugging him to her chest.

He squirmed free because he didn't like to be touched, grabbed a cookie off the plate, then quickly looked up at his grandmother to see if she was okay.

She was. She'd grown used to his strange behavior, and understood that despite his unease around others, he had strong feelings and real affection for people. But she was worried. Recently his teachers and therapists had observed that he was withdrawing further. The drugs Dr. Struthers had prescribed hadn't seemed to stem this process or even help. This was ominous, the doctor had warned, and could lead to Alex completely retreating into a world of his own.

He devoured a second cookie, gulped down half the milk, and returned to the book with an intensity that startled her.

“Alex, darling, is that something you're studying at school?” his grandmother asked again.

Instead of answering, he turned to a clean page of the notebook and started writing furiously, covering the paper with notations and equations.

“Alex, can you hear me?”

He kept writing as though she wasn't there, stopped, rubbed the top of his head vigorously, ripped the page out of the notebook, crumpled it, tossed it onto the floor, then resumed writing on a new sheet.

“Alex…” she whispered, picking up the balled paper and depositing it in the wire basket.

If he heard her, he didn't stop or acknowledge her in any way. She literally felt heat rising from his head.

“I love you, Alex. I want you to know that. There are a lot of good people in the world. I'm sure there are some nice boys at your school who'd like to be your friends.”

His concentration was so intense that his grandmother couldn't tell whether he was enjoying himself or in agony. The pace of his writing seemed to pick up. Alex was working himself into such a frenzy that his grandmother found it disturbing to watch.

Choking back a tear, she said, “I'll be in the kitchen making dinner if you need me. Join me if you want to.” Then she quickly kissed him on the head and left.