One Killer Force: A Delta Force Novel (34 page)

“Exfil vehicles for sure, boss,” Slapshot said.

Kolt didn’t have any more time to think it through, not another second to run the options through some risk-assessment matrix, no fucking time to waste on building a PowerPoint CONOP to present to Gangster. He needed to do something, anything. Anything but continue to stand there offering no solutions to the problem.

“Hawk, where are the dots?”

“In my pockets still,” Hawk said as she backpedaled a few more steps away from the line of upset North Korean troops.

“Use them now!” Kolt said, seeing Slapshot cut his eyes from the screen to him.

“What?” Hawk asked. “It’s too late, Kolt, they have Seamstress. He’s gone.”

“No, Hawk, hear me out,” Kolt said, taking inventory of his inflection, careful not to amp Hawk up even more.

“Use your gun, Hawk,” Kolt said. “You can make that throw.”

Kolt felt Slapshot cock his head, confused by the last comment. “Gun, dude?”

“She’s got a rocket arm,” Kolt said, “got her nickname from shagging bombs as a kid.”

“Are you serious?” Hawk said as she threw her left arm in the air, obviously shocked at what she had just heard through her Bluetooth. “Stop oppressing your people!” Hawk shouted, doing her best to keep up her cover as a crazed delegate.

Kolt knew Hawk had three strikes at it. All she had to do was reach into her pockets and pull out the quantum dots, the three plastic eggs disguised as bottles of cologne, a gift from the Swedish delegation for their North Korean hosts.

“You have three tries, Hawk,” Kolt said, “no different than gunning down a runner on third from the warning track in deep center.”

“I can’t make that throw, Kolt,” Hawk said, her voice quivering, practically refusing to even try.

“I know you can,” Kolt countered. “You did it dozens of times as a kid with your dad. Gun it once more.”

“Christ, Kolt, they’ll fucking shoot her if she pulls that shit,” Slapshot said.

“Aw shit, you’re right,” Kolt said, resigned. “Forget that, Hawk, you probably don’t have it anymore anyway.”

“Damn you, Kolt Raynor,” Hawk said.

Before Kolt could reply, letting her know he really didn’t mean the cheap shot questioning her skills, a pack of suits burst from the front door of the orange building and hurried down the steps. At least a dozen, all in civilian dress, mostly black over black. The crowd moved around the intimidating firing party and toward Hawk.

Hawk reached into her jacket pockets.

“No she isn’t,” Slapshot said, pushing his face a little closer to the screen.

Kolt didn’t respond, just watched the show almost in a paralyzed state, afraid to believe that Hawk might just attempt the throw.

“Hawk!” Kolt said into his cell. “Don’t push it.”

Hawk clutched one Q-dot in her left hand and two in her strong hand before stepping away from the rest of the gathering delegation. She figured that by tossing two on the first go she was bound to hit Seamstress.

Kolt heard Hawk speak in a normal, relaxed tone as if she had calmed down.

“Bottom of the seventh, tied score, winning run on third,” Hawk said as she took two steps toward the thugs dragging Seamstress, now thirty feet or so from the safety of the vehicles.

Kolt updated Slapshot, both locked on the remote video screen. “She is going for it.”

Hawk raised her hands chest level, cupped them as if the ball was hidden in the glove hand. She led with her left foot, the one still in the nude-tone heel, and crow-hopped with her bare right foot. In one smooth motion, she rotated at the waist, raised her throwing arm, and rifled the Q dots on a perfect horizontal.

Kolt and Slapshot watched them fly but couldn’t tell where they hit.

Hawk turned quickly toward the crowd. Kolt could hear them screaming but couldn’t understand what they were saying. Two men in dark suits ran toward Hawk just as the line of North Korean troops pointed their pistols at Hawk. The men stopped, apparently afraid to get too close to their wacked-out and obnoxious Swedish colleague.

“Shit!” Kolt said as he heard a gunshot through his cell. “Shots fired!”

“Leave it alone, Hawk!” Kolt yelled into his cell.

But Hawk was either not listening or ignoring Kolt now. She reached down with her left hand and ripped the remaining heel off, dropping it as if she was about to hit a hot shower.

“Free North Korea!” Hawk screamed at Seamstress, doing her best to explain her insane behavior.

“Hawk, acknowledge,” Kolt demanded. “Abort the fucking op!”

By now, Kolt was certain the Swedish delegation was in full shock. Their American colleague’s actions had not only broken up an important meeting, but threatened to get them all killed. And at the moment, Hawk no longer seemed to give two shits.

Hawk ran several steps closer to Seamstress, likely trying to improve her odds. Now barefooted, her movements looked pure and effortless. Hawk grabbed the remaining Q dot from her left hand, pulled her purse off her shoulder and dropped it to the street, then cupped her hands together again, going into another full windup. She turned her left shoulder toward home plate, crow-hopped, and uncorked a two-seam fastball directly at Seamstress. Just as she got the throw off, several North Korean soldiers grabbed her and forced her to the street. Now on her belly, her hands held behind her back, Hawk sent a final OPSKED over Bluetooth.

“I send Toyota.”

Camp Greaves, South Korea

“We launching, boss?” Slapshot asked.

“Aww, shit,” Kolt said as he watched Cindy Bird lifted to her feet, surrounded by North Korean guards and what he figured were both the South Korean and Swedish delegations. “I don’t know, man, the train or Hawk?”

“Looks like Hawk might be going to jail, but hopefully on this side of the border,” Slapshot said.

Kolt realized Hawk was being marched south, toward the original meeting building and the MDL.

“Get JoJo to pass Toyota to Inchon. Let the SEALs know he is tagged, but with the Q dots and not the RRDs. Their sensor won’t help.”

Kolt rubbed his short-haired beard nervously several times. He ran his fingers through his hair, flipping it out of his eyes, even though the first time did it. He turned away from the SpyLite’s remote video terminal to see Slapshot leaving the building, out to get JoJo to pull up green SAT and update Gangster, and in turn, Kleinsmith and his men, that Hawk had done her part.

It had been a long time since he turned down an opportunity to launch with his men. But he knew he had a larger responsibility now, as a squadron commander, to respect the chain of command. Slapshot might not like it, but he sensed his longtime partner understood. If Gangster wanted Kolt and the QRF to launch, he’d order them to. And in the absence of orders, even though Hawk’s performance was dicey, the situation was still under control. Launching helos across the DMZ in broad daylight required more than Hawk losing her cool. As long as she stayed true to her cover, Kolt figured she’d come out of it okay.

Kolt consciously felt for his cell phone, wondering if he should have just called instead of having JoJo pass the news over satellite. He turned back to the screen, and not seeing the crowd, reached for the arrow to zoom out.

Holy fuck!

Kolt leaped toward the bar and grabbed the video terminal with both hands. Careful not to inadvertently hit any buttons that might send the SpyLite barnstorming into North Korea, he turned toward his kit in the corner near the front door. Carrying the laptop over his left forearm like a newborn baby, he scooped up his assault vest, K-pot, and HK with his right hand and bolted for the front door.

TWENTY-THREE

Military Demarcation Line

Hawk looked back toward the mess she’d just broken free of. The North Korean guards were pushing the business-suited delegation members out of the way, helping each other to their feet, one guard even throwing Hawk’s pinstripe to the ground, another still supine, holding his left elbow.

Several pointed her way, their hands bobbing accusingly as if fingering a fan who might have interfered with a fly ball that was clearly playable by a hustling third baseman. She turned back, eyes on the path, consciously concerned about small unseen pebbles in the street gouging the bottom of her bare feet as she bolted for the safety of South Korean territory.

Not worried about having had her pantsuit jacket torn from her torso, she was just happy to have the elbow room to go full forty-yard sprint mode. She held on to her cell with her left hand as she held the Bluetooth to her ear with her right.

Her CrossFit legs pulled four more long but delicate strides before she turned again. Now their pistols were raised, probably slowing them a little, and they were screaming at her in undecipherable Korean, but no question: they were coming for her.

And fast.

No way, motherfuckers.

Hawk turned and eyed the center light blue buildings, the ones that straddled north and south territory evenly, and scanned for cover. Gunshots rang out. She instinctively ducked, fully expecting at least one of the North Korean guards’ rounds to ventilate her torn mauve joy blouse. Nothing.

They all missed?
The body is an acceptable bullet trap.
They couldn’t all have missed.

Hawk heard the shots, no doubt, but didn’t hear the crack she knew always followed in a millisecond as the supersonic rounds screamed past a target’s head. She knew the old pistols likely held shit ammo, with less stopping power than modern munitions, but she was still close enough to eat one. Hawk tried to increase her stride—even another inch could make a difference—but her shoeless feet weren’t agreeing with the hard asphalt.

“Kolt! Kolt!” she screamed, hopeful the Bluetooth connection was somehow still active. “Answer me, damn it!”

Hawk stopped as she reached the first piece of ballistically suitable cover, a place that would provide enough mass to absorb the small-arms bullets.

Now standing in the sand bed, just around the corner of the center blue MAC building that straddled the MDL, Hawk bent over. She opened her mouth wide to grab air, panting desperately as her aortic valves pumped at time and a half, her sensory and motor neurons jousting like medieval knights preventing her from another step.

Hawk looked up and peered around the building corner, hoping the air-conditioning unit would help conceal her from her pursuers.

Still closing.

She turned her head toward South Korea, still thirty feet or so behind her, the exact line marked by a short concrete slab running from building to building, paralleling the MDL. Surprised, no, shocked to not see any shiny black helmets with thick white stripes, the helmets of South Korean guards that she might signal for help. Worse, no sign of U.S. Army troops behind her, armed soldiers that might help her to safety. The anticipated safety of South Korea didn’t look so certain as she saw only the empty space of the five marble steps and three double glass doors of the massive Freedom House.

Shit!

Hawk knew she couldn’t stop, no way, but she also knew that if she simply busted across the MDL without warning, she’d be stitched from cleavage to groin. She had already created an international incident, and even though word doesn’t travel that fast, American JSA sharpshooters aim small and hit small.

But, debate too long now and she risked being grabbed again. And if the grudge-holding North Koreans got her in their clutches again, it would be curtains for sure. She had already proven too squirrely to hold on to and figured the North Koreans would simply line up their iron sights and execute her on the spot. Her act of love-crazed groupie had no doubt been viewed an act of espionage against the people of the DPRK. There was no stopping now, not on Gangster’s sync matrix and not on hers.

She quickly looked around, left then right, then whipped her head to her six again, hoping like hell to finally catch a glimpse of a few rifle-bearing South Korean or U.S. Army soldiers holding the line. She knew they had to have heard the earlier gunshots.

Where the hell is everyone? Where the hell is Kolt?

Hawk pied the corner, staying low behind the air conditioner, stealing one last look into North Korea before she knew she’d turn for the dark gravel bed that marked southern soil. If her pursuers planned to stop short of crossing the line, they sure weren’t telegraphing their intentions. Without a weapon, she’d throw her hands into the sky surrender style and take her chances in South Korea.

Get moving, Hawk!

She heard the crack of two more rounds, but this time from behind her. She winced in pain, grabbed her right shoulder, and dropped prone to the sand next to the spray of blood drops that had beaten her there. She turned her head, her blond bangs barely obscuring the reflection from broken glass that had been blasted from the windowsill, now drawing her attention like a proctor is drawn to a performing class clown in the middle of a final exam. She looked up, toward the window, and directly into the business end of two smoking Czech CZ-82s double-gripped by two menacing and very serious-looking North Korean soldiers.

Party over!

*   *   *

Kolt Raynor quickly looked up from the remote video terminal, his thighs holding it tight by the edges as they sped toward the objective area at 152 knots, practically skidding across the treetops and happy mounds. He barely spotted the oddball rooftop of the Freedom House, the tallest building on the South Korean side of the Joint Security Area, and knew they were less than a minute out.

He gave one more glance at the screen, saw the video image of Hawk in a crowd between two of the three blue one-story buildings, and tapped in the four-number code to auto the SpyLite to its programmed recovery location.

He spun on his ass, reached behind him from the Little Bird’s port-side external pod, and set the SpyLite laptop into the belly of Breaker Four-One. He pushed it as deep as he could, betting it wouldn’t catch wind from under the auxiliary fuel tank, and called it good. He reached up to grab his Oakley goggles resting on his helmet, just above the plastic NVG mount, yanked on the elastic band, and dropped them in front of his eyes.