The Fall (19 page)

 

6

THE RETURN OF THE WARRIOR

But the Lord is with me, like a mighty warrior, so my persecutors will stumble and not prevail. They will fail and will be thoroughly disgraced; their dishonor will never be forgotten.

—Jeremiah 20:11

He moved swiftly, quietly, with purpose, the armored battle dress blending him with the night as he made his way across the backyard and up the side of the house opposite the detached garage.

The MK11 semiautomatic sniper rifle in his gloved hands felt right, balanced, just as he remembered, even with the QD sound suppressor also designed to attenuate muzzle flashes for the seven shots he expected to fire tonight.

One for each of the soldiers that had exited those Humvees.

Seven shots. Seven kills.

That was the SEAL way, precisely what his training—which surfaced with unparalleled clarity—commanded him to do as he advanced in a deep crouch, camouflage cream darkening his features, a black bandanna concealing his hair, hiding him perfectly with his surroundings under a blanket of stars in the wrong world.

Jack pushed those thoughts aside as he neared the corner, the warrior in him tempering the adrenaline rush, eyes focused on his prey, his hands in perfect position, shooting finger resting on the trigger casing, feeling the deep gauge bitten out of the metal by a ricocheting Taliban round a lifetime ago.

But this couldn't possibly be his old rifle, the one he had lost in Colombia.

Still, a part of him felt a strange sense of joy at being reunited with the MK11.

He paused by the front corner and dropped over the cool lawn, setting the long barrel on the Harris swivel-based bipod, eyes scanning the street through the Leupold riflescope, easily locating the first three targets, two across and one on the sidewalk just forty feet from him. Three more covered the other side with identical deployment. The last one stood by the middle Humvee next to Pete, who was on the phone. All seven soldiers were armed with standard-issue M17 SCAR-H rifles that fired the same 7.62 mm NATO rounds in Jack's twenty-round box magazine.

And that realization made him pause, reassess what he was about to do: open fire on American soldiers.

But what choice did he have? Through his actions, Pete had already telegraphed his intentions loud and clear.

This blood is on him.

And besides, what would happen to Angela if Jack was either captured or killed? She was now a liability.

Seven shots. Seven kills.

That was his best option—the only option that Pete had left for him.

Pete Flaherty.

He watched him for a moment, still talking on the phone. The retired SEAL commando had something completely different reserved for his former best friend.

Jack shifted sights between targets, for a moment wondering why they hadn't yet moved on the house. The only thing that made sense was that Pete could just be holding the area while waiting for reinforcements, even though it was already eight against two.

If so, then time was of the essence.

Jack could easily disable the closest three in rapid succession, but the other four soldiers—plus Pete—required at least one more SEAL firing in unison.

Lacking that, he needed a distraction for just a few seconds, something to keep the other soldiers from looking in the direction of their fallen comrades, realizing they were under attack, and scrambling to return fire.

He reached into a Velcro-secured pocket next to his SOG knife and produced the one gadget that was not military-issued on his persona, and lining up his closest target, he tapped it once.

The garage door started to open on the other side of the property.

All heads shifted in unison toward the source of the noise—and most important, away from his immediate kill zone.

Jack exhaled and squeezed the trigger, feeling the recoil as the semiautomatic rifle ejected the spent cartridge while chambering another round from the magazine. The bullet hit the mark on the Kevlar vest over the soldier's solar plexus at a velocity of nearly 2,900 feet per second, delivering a nonlethal but crippling blow guaranteed to knock him unconscious for several minutes.

Shifting targets before the first soldier had fallen, Jack aligned the Leupold crosshairs on the second mark, still looking in the direction of the garage.

Firing again, Jack scored another hit within two seconds of the first as the soldier also dropped from view silently.

He shifted again, firing a third round two seconds later, neutralizing the third target before bringing the soldiers at the other side of the house into view.

Lining up the one closest to the house in the crosshairs, Jack fired for a fourth time in eight seconds at a distance of roughly one hundred feet, hitting his mark just as the ground exploded several feet in front of him with the sound of thunder as muzzle flashes lit up the street.

He rolled back once, twice, retreating like a vanishing shadow, catching a glimpse of Pete jumping inside a Humvee before losing sight of his remaining targets.

Reaching for his utility belt while rising to a deep crouch, he curled his fingers around a cylindrical canister, freeing it from its pouch, pulling the safety ring, and throwing it hard around the corner, in the direction of the incoming soldiers, before hurtling back to the rear of the property.

Thousand one. Thousand two. Thousand three. Thousand—

The M84 stun grenade thundered, illuminating the street behind him like a bolt of lightning, its magnesium-based pyrotechnic guaranteed to inflict immediate flash blindness, deafness, and loss of balance from inner ear shock to anyone within a fifteen-foot radius.

He heard screams, shouts of pain, anger, and confusion as he reached the back corner, stopping, rolling into view, landing on his feet, the MK11 automatically leveled at the opposite end of the backyard, in case the soldier closest to the house had managed to escape the blast and anticipated his retreat.

But no one came.

He gave the waterfront a quick look, verifying no threat near the Boston Whaler in the boathouse, before sprinting across the back of the house, like a ghost, reaching the opposite corner and moving up to the front, in between the corridor formed by the side of the house and the detached garage.

Dropping to the ground by the front corner, behind a line of waist-high bushes, he used the MK11's barrel to part the shrubbery, spotting his remaining targets, two rolling on the ground, hands over their ears, their eyes. The third soldier, on all fours, vomited on the asphalt.

His gaze shifted to Pete in the back of the lead Humvee, a hand over his eyes, the other holding a radio to his lips.

He was about to race across the pavement to deliver a dose of up-close-and-personal SEAL justice when three pairs of headlights turned onto his street, their beams stabbing the night, exposing the kill zone.

Help. But not for Jack.

He doubled back, tapping his voice-activated throat mike three times, signaling to Angela to come out.

Looking over his shoulder again to make sure no one followed, Jack reached the backyard just as she came out dressed in black jeans and a gray halter top while hauling two large duffel bags strapped over her shoulders, filled with his choice ordnance, while clutching one of Jack's favorite weapons after the MK11: a loaded M32 grenade launcher.

“Get the boat ready,” he told her, swapping weapons. “This will slow them down.”

“Jack,” she said, holding his MK11. “The suit. I couldn't carry it with all the ammo. It's already folded back inside the—”

“I'll get it. Start the engine. I'll be right behind you,” he said.

“Please, be careful,” she said, her eyes screaming,
I can't lose you again.

“I will,” he said. “But time is against us. Now go.”

She kissed him on his cheek, smearing her mouth with camouflage cream before taking off in the direction of the boathouse.

Relax, honey. I'll be right back.

Inhaling deeply, he turned his attention to the street, hearing the next round of Humvees approaching, engines roaring.

Jack frowned, realizing what he had to do, hands gripping the M32, verifying all six chambered M406 high-explosive dual purpose rounds, each capable of engaging lightly armored, point, and target areas.

Rushing to the right side of the house, he lined up the M32's reflex sight on the street a hundred feet away just as the lead Humvee shot by, followed by the second, and the third.

Jack centered the last Humvee in the reflex sight and fired two HEDP rounds in one second, the recoil pad of the modular butt-stock jerking twice against his shoulder as the rounds thumped out of their chambers.

Sprinting to the opposite side of the house, he faced the long corridor-like path between the detached garage and the brick structure once again, spotting the lead Humvee, soldiers jumping out just as the first two M406s detonated, their blasts shaking the house's foundation, shattering windows.

He ignored it, popping two more HEDP rounds just as soldiers jumped back from the acoustic energy of the first two explosions, invisible fists punching them in the chest, propelling them against their armored vehicles.

Moving away, he scurried toward the sliding glass doors, still open, trained instincts arresting his momentum, forcing him to wait for the next two blasts, which came an instant later, deafening, stroboscopic—deadly—buying him the seconds he needed to retrieve the OSS, his ticket home.

Jack ran into a living room littered with broken glass, eyes focused on his target on the sofa, the long helmet—

Gunfire erupted from the street, peppering the house, puncturing the front door, demolishing furniture, picture frames. The dining room chandelier exploded as it crashed over the long table beneath it.

He dove, landing on a sea of sharp glass, his battle dress shielding him as rounds buzzed overhead, tearing into the sofa, into the ceiling, showering him with plasterboard.

The deafening noise momentarily disoriented him as he tried to crawl to the suit when an invisible force punched him square in the chest, the Kevlar over Nomex fabric absorbing the impact of a direct hit, spreading it across his upper body, pushing him back with savage force, nearly making him lose control of his bladder muscles.

Jack landed on his back, dazed, out of breath, mouth wide open trying to inhale, his chest on fire.

A trembling hand reached down for the M32 by his feet, clutching the weapon while the other felt his chest, verifying that the round hadn't pierced the Kevlar.

Jack made another attempt for the OSS, ignoring the agonizing pain as he crawled back to the sofa, but the earsplitting fusillade held him back, forcing him to stay low as bullets punched holes in the helmet, ripping through the folded suit inside, in an instant eliminating his return home.

Damn!

Instincts made him roll away toward the back of the house, wincing in pain as the M32 pressed against his chest on every roll, the staccato gunfire intensifying, the ceiling and the carpet swapping places again and again until his right shoulder struck something hard, unyielding, a wall by the dining room as rounds shaved wood inches above him.

He crawled on elbows and knees under the heavy dining table while shots hammered it, splinters exploding, stinging the back of his neck as he reached the other side, just a few feet away from the same sliding glass now shattered by gunfire, gloved hands still clutching his grenade launcher and its two remaining rounds.

His inner voice now screamed at him to jump, to move, to scramble from his temporary hideout, from the false sense of security of lying low inside a light structure under heavy fire.

Because the former SEAL knew precisely what would come next—knew the tactics of flushing an enemy in modern suburban warfare.

This initial volley of rounds, as intimidating as it was at the receiving end, was just the appetizer of a standard-issue U.S. Army ass-kicking meal.

The main course came a moment later, just as the firing stopped in unison.

Jack heard three popping sounds as payback skittered across the living room floor.

Something snapped inside of him, and he sprung, almost as if he were lying on a nest of scorpions, long-ingrained survival instincts propelling him toward the shattered sliding glass doors, ignoring his throbbing chest and shards of glass threatening to tear his armored battle dress apart as he kicked his legs hard and dove through, landing on the back patio, rolling into lawn chairs just as multiple blasts rocked the house.

Glass and flaming debris exploded over the backyard, tongues of flames forking through shattered windows, through the doors he had just jumped through, licking the night sky.

The acoustic wave punched him in the back, throwing him a dozen feet in the air, before crash-landing on the grass beyond the patio.

Jack rolled to his side, sitting up with great effort, wincing in pain as he did so, but grateful for his SEAL training as he stared at his hands, still clutching his grenade launcher. Just like NFL players are trained to protect the football, so are SEALs taught to protect their weapon.

Get up, Jack.

He staggered to his feet, dazed, disoriented, his back burning from the blasts. Ears ringing, he blinked rapidly, clearing his sight, tightening the grip on the M32, taking a deep breath, coughing, fighting the urge to convulse as nausea spread through his system.

Move, Jack.

Mustering strength, he forced his legs to move, to run, to cover the fifty feet to the boathouse. He didn't need to look back to know the soldiers were coming, as prescribed by their training.

Jack scrambled from the threat, flinching in pain with each step, his ribs protesting the abuse, his heartbeat rocketing, hammering his aching chest.

His vision tunneled, converging on the Boston Whaler backdropped by the water as he pushed his scourged body ahead, refusing to give up, to capitulate, to let them take him. He owed it to Angela to escape, to survive to fight another day, just like in the Colombian jungle.