Sniper Elite (14 page)

Tom and Jerry had been the only modification to that system, the ace up the sleeve of a US State Department very much wanting to send the message that the kidnap and rape of US servicewomen for profit was not a business that ambitious young terrorists around the world should aspire to. It was believed that leaving a bunch of dead bagmen at the scene of an exchange would help to send that message loud and clear, but this could occur only if Sandra was exchanged
directly for the cash. There were a number of people within the CIA who believed very strongly that Sandra was likely to be there. Because why hold on to such a dangerous captive any longer than absolutely necessary—particularly if the ransom was paid and everyone was following the tried-and-true intermediary system?

“Think she's in there?” Jerry ventured, sitting back in his seat with his boot against the dash.

Tom shook his head. “Not a fucking chance. This whole thing stinks like shit. Where the fuck do those assholes think they're going with all that cash that we can't follow? They're not dealing with the Afghan government. They're dealing with the fucking CIA. How the fuck are they going to shake a UAV?”

“Well, we're talking about stupid mountain people,” Jerry reminded him.

“Did those pricks with the AKs look like stupid mountain people to you? And even if they are, Jackal knows all about the eye in the sky. He didn't even ask if we'd be watching. All he did was smile, like he knew something we didn't. Fucker's up to something. I know he is.”

“You think he's on the take?”

“All bagmen are on the take.”

“But Karzai handpicked this guy.”

“And where the fuck is
he
?” Tom said. “Conveniently out of the fucking country. I'm telling you, I don't like this. Advise CenCom we're moving in for a closer look.”

“But we're—”

Tom checked his weapon. “Get ready to move your ass.”

Jerry sat up in the seat. “CenCom, be advised . . . Tom wants a closer look. This doesn't look right.” He listened a moment, then looked at Tom. “They're asking Langley for clearance.”

“Fuck clearance,” Tom said, getting out. “While Langley's busy scratching their balls, this thing's busy getting fucked up. Let's go.”

Jerry got out of the car and started across the street after Tom. “CenCom, be advised we're heading in for a closer look.”

“They can see us, numb nuts.”

Jerry laughed. “Kiss my ass. I'm doing my job.”

They kept an eye out as they trotted across the lot, watching for lookouts, but they saw no one at all.

“These people feel totally secure,” Jerry said.

“Why wouldn't they?” Tom answered. “That's Karzai's guy in there, and if he's in bed with the fucking HIK, who's he got to be afraid of?”

They headed down the far side of the warehouse. There were no windows or cameras to worry about, so they moved fast, hands inside their jackets and ready to go guns-up at the first sign of trouble.

“Hey,” Jerry said. “CenCom just got clearance from Langley.”

“Good for CenCom.” Tom stopped at the man door a few hundred feet down the wall, hoping they'd gone far enough down from the main entrance. “All right, get your ass wired up. We're going in.”

He tried the knob, but it was locked. “Shit! Do your thing.”

Jerry took a knee in front of the door and pulled a pick set from his pocket. Anyone who spotted them now would know something was up, so Tom took the MP7 from inside his jacket. Jerry had the door unlocked in a little over a minute, then stood back so Tom could precede him into the building. They slipped inside to find the building was lit by skylight. Light was shadowy along the walls where an overhead storage level ran the length of the building on both sides. Both levels were crowded with untold volumes of odds and ends junk, including pieces of cars and trucks, used earthmover tires, aircraft fuselages, various wooden crates, empty wooden spools, and stacks of empty pallets.

The two commandos moved in and out of the junk, keeping close to the wall as they negotiated their way back in the direction they had come, hearing hurried, bustling movement up ahead. They closed to
within fifty feet to see five different vehicles of different models lined up, cars and vans, all of them nondescript. Jackal stood near a row of tables where close to twenty men had already divided the afghanis into five piles of equal amounts and were now stuffing the piles into five different army duffel bags, apparently to be loaded into the five waiting vehicles for transport to parts unknown.

“This look normal to you?” Tom said quietly.

“Hell if I know,” Jerry said with a shrug. “What do you want to do?”

Tom was busy studying Jackal's posture and facial expressions. He was a man of medium build, late forties, with dark hair and thick dark eyebrows. He wasn't carrying himself like a guy playing the role of an intermediary; rather he looked a whole lot more like an overseer. What was more, he looked concerned, and he kept checking his watch.

“We're taking these guys,” Tom decided, extending the buttstock of his MP7. “This isn't right.”

Jerry followed suit, advising CenCom they were going into action.

Without waiting for a reply, they stepped from cover with their weapons shouldered.

“Freeze!” Tom screamed at the top of his voice, moving rapidly forward. “Hands in the fucking air! Hands in the fucking air, assholes!”

Most of the men nearly jumped out of their skins at the report of his rabid voice, and their hands shot skyward.

Jerry quickly swept the upper levels with his eyes, moving forward and to the left of Tom so they could fire into the men from the standard
L
formation without anyone escaping and without the danger of hitting each other.

Only Jackal, and the two men with AK-47s, remained composed, their hands at their sides.

“I said, hands in the fucking air!” Tom screamed. “And don't tell me you don't fucking understand!”

The AK men slowly obeyed, but Jackal only smiled.

“What are you doing here?” he asked calmly, his dark eyes steady. “Are you trying to get your pilot killed? We don't have time for this. You should not be here.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Tom demanded.

“We are dividing the money for transport through the city,” Jackal replied. “Do you expect us to transport it all in the same vehicle? That would be stupid.”

“Jerry, advise CenCom what we've got.”

Jerry began to describe their situation over the radio.

“May my men put their hands down now?” Jackal asked. “You've clearly scared them half to death.”

Tom took a glance at their faces. They did not look scared to him; they looked desperate. “They can keep their fucking hands up. Now take away those two AK-47s and place them on the ground—slowly!”

Jackal sighed and did as he was told, speaking calmly to the men in Pashto as he did so.

“Shut the fuck up!” Tom screamed. “Speak English or not at all!”

Jackal sighed again. “All I did was tell them to keep their hands up. We are wasting valuable time with this.”

Jerry was still talking quietly with CenCom, breaking the situation down for the boys back in Langley.

“How many of these men are Taliban or HIK?” Tom demanded.

“None of these men are Taliban or HIK,” Jackal replied. “This is their job. They work for me—for us. They are professional intermediaries. You need to leave. You endanger your pilot every moment that you are here.”

“Jerry?”

Jerry shrugged. “CenCom says Langley isn't worried about what we've got. We can clear.”

“Are you satisfied now?” Jackal asked. “You should go. Let us do our jobs.”

“No, I'm not fucking satisfied,” Tom retorted. “Get your men lined up along the table with their hands behind their heads. We're going to search these vehicles. And if I even
think
you're trying to pull some shit in Pashto, you're a fucking dead man.”

“Will you please talk to him?” Jackal said to Jerry. “He's crazy. You're going to get your pilot killed.”

Jerry kept his weapon trained on the group of men. “Tom, Langley wants us to clear.”

“Langley isn't fucking here, Jerry, and Langley isn't seeing what the fuck I'm seeing.”

“What are you seeing?” Jackal demanded, sounding agitated for the first time. “Tell me what you think you see!”

“A bunch of nervous motherfuckers!” Tom shouted. “Now line 'em the fuck up. Get 'em down on their goddamn knees with their hands behind their fucking heads. Now!”

“Of course they're nervous,” Jackal said with an incredulous laugh. “You're a crazy man with a gun!”

“Do it! Now!”

“Please!” Jackal said, almost pleading with Jerry. “Talk to your commanders. Get them to control this man. Your pilot is in grave danger because of this!”

Jerry could see it now, too. “He doesn't want us searching the vehicles.”

“You bet your fucking ass he doesn't.” Tom stepped toward Jackal and kicked him to the ground, aiming the gun down into his face and shrieking at the top of his voice, “I said line these fucking men up!”

“Okay!” Jackal shouted, his hands thrust up in front of him.
“Okay. But you are making a terrible mistake. You're in big trouble. I am an Afghan diplomat.”

“You're a fucking bagman! Line 'em up!” He kicked Jackal in the ribs.

Jackal spoke quickly to the men, pointing, and they slowly began to form into a line.

Jerry was sweating bullets. If they ended up gunning these guys down, and it turned out to be nothing more than a misunderstanding, he and Tom would spend the rest of their lives in Leavenworth prison. “Tom, this isn't good, man.”

“I know it,” Tom said over his shoulder, his eyes boring into Jackal's. “But this fucking prick is lying.” He backed away from Jackal and started kicking the men in the backs of their knees, dropping them one at a time until the rest got the picture and got down into the dirt with their hands behind their heads. “Tell 'em to cross their legs.”

Jackal spoke to them from where he lay on his side in the dust, and they crossed their ankles.

At last satisfied the prisoners were sufficiently controlled, Tom stood back to cover them from behind, clearing Jerry to search the vehicles.

Jerry quickly searched the first two sedans and found nothing. He moved to the van and opened the side door, seeing at once a blood-soaked blanket wrapped around a lifeless form, a pair of female feet and ankles extending from the bottom. “Holy Jesus!” he said. “I got a body—a woman!”

“You don't understand!” Jackal said, leaping to his feet.

One of the other men took his hands away from his head and reached for a pistol concealed beneath the front of his shirt. Tom blew him away with a burst of automatic fire, catching the men on either side of him as well. The rest of the prisoners in line dove forward
into the dirt and covered their heads as Jackal spun and ran for the SUV. Tom cut him down before he'd gone three steps.

Jerry was in a crouch near the van, his weapon trained on the men now lying facedown in the dust pissing their pants. “We clear?”

Tom switched out the magazine. “Clear!”

Jerry stood up and climbed into the van. He could see a matted mop of bloody brown hair protruding from the blanket. He pulled the cover away. “The cocksuckers beat her to death.”

Tom marched forward and started kicking the men. “Who speaks fucking English here? Nobody, huh? Okay, motherfuckers, time to die!”

A hand shot up. “I English bad!”

“You English bad? On your fucking feet, Bad English.”

The skinny young man got up trembling. The front of his pants were soaked with piss.

“Who killed her?”

The young man did not hesitate to point out two other men still lying facedown with their fingers laced over the backs of their heads.

Tom stalked over to see their knuckles were covered with fresh abrasions. He kicked them each in the rib cage with all the force he could muster. “This is just the fucking beginning.”

Jerry closed the blanket and got out of the van. “CenCom, be advised, the principal is DOA. Repeat. Principal is DOA. Looks like it's been about twelve hours. Also, be advised that Jackal is KIA. We are requesting CID and enough security to deal with sixteen male prisoners.” He listened patiently to the reply, smirking with disgust before making his response. “Roger, CenCom. All funds are secure.”

Gil had some tough choices to make, tough choices to go along with the tough choice that had been forced upon him. Navy SEALs were not murderers, they were warriors, and they did not enter into combat with the intention of making war on women or children who did not make war on them. Collateral damage happened, and it was always unfortunate, but it was never a SEAL's intention to end the life of a noncombatant. Most did not allow it to bother them when it happened—at least not on the surface. They told themselves that it was war, that they were fighting for their country, and that God would sort it all out. How else could they live with the things they saw?

Gil could never entirely buy into that perspective, though at times he was left no other choice but to run with it. Regardless, he hadn't
joined DEVGRU to shoot pregnant women. He was not an automatonic killer for men like Lerher to set loose in the wild backwaters of the planet to do his dirty work. He would take the Sherkat woman back with him, or he would die trying. He had a wife he wanted to look in the face when he finally retired from this man's Navy, and if he couldn't do that, then there wasn't much point in getting back anyhow. Dishonor scared him a hell of a lot more than death.

Most of his DEVGRU counterparts, when faced with the same repugnant decision of having to shoot a pregnant woman point-blank in the road would have done so, regrettably, and then attempted to shrug it off as part of the mission—much as Gil had shot the dying gunmen in the midst of their prayers. And still there were others, like Crosswhite and Steelyard, who probably would have shot her and then raised holy hell about it when they got back. Gil wasn't exactly sure why he couldn't be more like them. He wished he were. Maybe he wasn't strong enough, or maybe he was just too much of a goddamn idealist when it came to certain things. All he knew for sure was that SEALs didn't treat women like those Taliban pricks were treating Sandra Brux, and the only way he knew to lead was by example. So this was the example he was going to set, come hell or high water, and fuck anybody who didn't like it.