Hard Man to Kill (Dark Horse Guardian Series Book 4) (8 page)

Tom and Gus came down to relieve them.  For a brief time, Ben and Elvis raced upstairs, washed up, and ate something.  Ben spoke into his com, “It’s going to be a long night, guys.”

An hour later, they were back in the tomb with Mizoul and Farouk.  As expected, some of their swagger was gone once the stark realization had come to the terrorists they were in for a world of hurt. Like most of the men who had come to Guantanamo, they had not even been water boarded. Now they were going to long for those interrogation techniques.

Ben and Elvis took turns questioning the two new men, as Al Safir lie motionless in the corner with his hands and feet bound.  After three hours of slapping the two men around, they wouldn’t talk, and it was time to take the gloves off.  The point being, they had said enough to Ben to give him the knowledge that they had information, but the fools actually believed they couldn’t be broken.  He hadn’t met one yet that couldn’t be. 

Mizoul was kept downstairs and Farouk brought upstairs for a little while.  Al Safir had passed out in the corner, but was still breathing.  Mizoul knew he was in for something, but didn’t know what.  Ben asked him a series of questions and Mizoul refused to look at him.  Tossing him onto the dirt floor, he pulled his bound hands up onto the metal chair. 

“Fingers – you have ten of them – do you want to keep them?”  He pulled out the fixed blade and ran it over Mizoul’s index finger slowly slicing into the flesh.  Blood spurted, and the tough terrorist cried out in pain.  Ben stuffed the rag back into his mouth and continued cutting.  Apparently, this guy wanted to play rough. 

Ben stared into Mizoul's eyes. “I have PTSD, bad flashbacks of being tortured by you bastards, and a knife. I can do this all
day.
” Ben pulled the knife.  The first pass was more of a yank than a cut. But, even though he’d gotten Mizoul’s attention, the bastard wouldn’t talk. 

Mizoul screamed through the rag.

After the finger was excised, Ben took another rag out of his backpack and bound the wound to slow the bleeding.  Mizoul’s howling was muffled.  His eyes now filled with fear, as rivulets of sweat mixed with tears poured down his face.

Ben scowled. In Arabic he shouted, “You think this is bad? Just wait.  Because I'm going to keep cutting. And, once I get to your tongue, there’ll be nothing left of you to talk.”

Mizoul grimaced and acquiesced.

As soon as Ben removed the rag from his mouth, Mizoul blurted out everything.  No longer did he hold back or put on an act filled with loyalty and pride.  There was nothing left.  Ben tossed him into the corner with Al Safir, and spoke into the com, “Bring down Farouk.” 

The men led Farouk down the wooden ladder into the tomb.  He took one look at the two lying in the corner, and Ben shoved him down to the dirt floor face first.  Straddling his back, Ben hissed into his ear, “Tell me.”

Farouk was filled with terror.  Ben took the knife and sliced off chunks of his hair. He pulled the robe off him and tossed the garment aside.  Naked on the floor and trembling, Farouk cried out as Ben put the knife to his neck. 

“Tell me,” Ben shouted, his voice filled with rage.  He saw Farouk’s eyes glued to Mizoul’s bloody hand.  “Yes, I cut off his fingers.  You’re next,” Ben said in Arabic.  “I might cut something else off your body.  You won’t be needing it where you’re going.”

Within minutes Farouk gave him all of the information he had, and Ben even wondered if he made some of it up.  There were two other detainees released earlier from Guantanamo, Ibrahim Alim Shah and Muhammed Ghafoor.  The plans had been in the works for months.  They were being helped by several cells in Chicago, setting up a coordinated attack in the United States, of all places.  The elevated trains in Chicago would be bombed, similar to the event that occurred in Spain. 

Once he got the information he called Moshe.  “Tuesday is the target date.  These assholes are setting up an attack in Chicago.  Everything is in motion.  Backpack bombs.  I’ve got names and phone numbers.  I’ll text them to you.  Get this shit to the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security now!”  He quickly sent the information to Moshe, then spat on the dirt floor, feeling as if he could vomit on the coward lying there trembling.

“What shall we do with the three stooges?” Elvis uttered. 

Ben glanced at the men.  “They’re toast.  Even if we keep them around and pry more out of them, would it even be worth it?”  The sweat trickled down his face onto his chest.  Even beneath the ground, the humidity was oppressive, sweltering.  No matter how much water he consumed, he seemed to need more. 

Ben ordered all of the men out of the room except the prisoners.  He took a deep breath and removed the Glock19 from his shoulder holster, attaching the suppressor slowly and methodically.  He noticed two of the men were already dehydrated and cowering in the corner.  The third was hardly awake after the slightest roughing up.  Then, another thought occurred to him.

One by one, Ben dragged the terrorists into the hole his men had dug in the basement.  Their hands bound, he laid them out.  It looked like one of the mass graves these men were so fond of using for their killing sprees.  Except, this grave would be different in more ways than one. Ben walked away to the edge of the basement, and fingered the remote control for a garage opener.

Mizoul was the only one to look up and see the cement mixer at the edge of the space above him.  His eyes widened in terror, thinking he was about to be buried in cement.

It was actually much worse.

Ben touched the remote as Mizoul took a breath to scream. Fortunately for Mizoul, that meant he took a deep, deep breath of the powdered lye that poured down onto them.  Ben watched as Mizoul struggled.  It was like swallowing acid.  For the others, it was like swimming in it.

Murder and body disposal in one neat package.  The three men ceased breathing within minutes.  He spoke into the com, “Get them out of here.  The flies are bad enough as it is.”  The men scrambled to put the bodies into bags and tossed them into the Jeep.  It was black outside.  A few people were milling around, but paid no attention to seven men loading stuff into a Jeep. 

“Feed them to the crocodiles.  There’s a creek about five clicks from here, to the south.” Ben exhaled.  Tom nodded, “Yeah, I know where it is.”

Ben dialed Moshe, “Send another Jeep for me, would you?  I’m tired, bro.” 

Driving back to the safe house didn’t feel safe.  And, as if things had gone too smoothly, they were approaching what appeared to be a phony checkpoint. 

“They’re not police,” Ben whispered into his com. 

He heard Moshe’s response, “Shit.”

The men dressed in khakis were pointing AK’s at the vehicle, and Ben had to make a quick decision.  Stop and get made, or drive through taking shots, and possibly be tailed.  He decided to take the latter.  Either way, they’d be in a precarious situation. 

Ben turned to the driver. “Run it.”

The driver, who looked like a recent college graduate, didn’t even look at Ben, just smiled. The vehicle roared into second, then third gear, rapidly hurtling them through the barricade.  The AK’s fired several bullets into the vehicle, but they were now doing sixty miles per hour zigzagging and turning down an unfamiliar road. 

“Lose them,” Ben ordered. 

Moshe laughed. “Come now, you don't think we're that stupid, did you?” He tapped his com unit and said, “Rear car, drop the caltrops.”

A medieval warfare device, the caltrops were basically a ball with four spikes coming out of it.  The spikes were evenly spaced so that any way it was thrown, it still landed point up, with the other spikes acting as a tripod. It was originally used against horses and cavalry, but it worked on cars, too.

Despite losing the tail in short order, they drove for forty-five minutes, in total darkness through a rural field, then a dense jungle area.  When they came upon a town, it was at least twenty miles from the inn and Ben determined it was the town of Sentini.  A dot on a map, but barely that, it was slightly larger than El Chulupa.  Ben observed all manner of violence taking place in the streets.  Fist fights, stabbings, gun shots, drug deals, blacked out cars weaving in and out of private alleys.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Ben said, realizing they’d lost their followers.  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they landed at the safe house.  Elvis was already there taking a shower. 

“Hurry up,” Ben yelled to him.  “I need to use the bathroom.” 

“All right, I’m almost done.” Elvis said.

Ben stepped out into the alley to take a leak.  The place reeked of urine, garbage, vomit, feces, and some smells he couldn’t identify.  The flies were unbearable.  Babies cried.  The humidity was oppressive.  He didn’t think he could perspire any more.  His clothing was soaked with blood and sweat. 

When he stepped back inside, Elvis was wrapped in a towel.  “It’s all yours.” 

Ben slapped his hand as he headed toward the shower. 

Elvis looked at him, “What the hell happened to you?  I thought you guys were right behind us.” 

Ben managed a smile, “Just another day.” 

He heard Elvis yell to him as he turned on the water, “Hey, Chief, if you haven’t eaten, I’ll get you something.”

Even the water from the shower smelled like rotten eggs.  But, the warm water pulsing on him washed away the grime of the day and made him feel baptized anew.  Three less terrorists walked on the face of the earth, plus he got enough intel to foil an attack on American soil.  Couldn’t ask for more than that … except maybe four terrorists.  He was satisfied with the mission.  The FBI were tracking Ibrahim Alim Shah and Mohammed Ghafoor.  They were doomed; a kill order had been given from the highest authority.  Two more he didn’t have to worry about.  But, Ben would not rest until he heard they were dead, officially.

If he hadn’t gone the extra mile in that interrogation, the information never would have been gleaned.  The bombing of Chicago would have killed hundreds of innocent people – for what?  Allah?  The prophet Muhammed wanted this?  What sort of sick bastard would believe this garbage? 
There was nothing religious about it.
It was Nazism plain and simple. 
Kill all who do not follow your sick demented leader
.  It had nothing to do with God or Allah or praying or living peacefully alongside others.  It was a self-centered cult, hell bent on destroying everyone and everything on the planet who didn’t submit.  And, it had to be stopped by unwavering men with guns who would stay up day and night, willing to do anything possible to end it.

Ben didn’t need the towel to dry himself off.  He let the water remain on his body.  It seemed to be the only coolness he experienced for the last twenty-four hours.  He slipped into a fresh shirt and cargo shorts from his backpack.  Thanking Elvis for half a sandwich, he ate voraciously. 

The com in his ear buzzed with the happy news that the Dark Horse Guardians had taken out twelve other targets in the course of the day, led by Randall Bettencourt.  They located a gun cache with those they sought in the same building as the HUMINT group had indicated.  Calmly waiting for nightfall, the men had determined their options.  The G’s and tiny drones helped them gain information and coordinate the strike.  The dead bodies were photographed for identification, then tossed in a remote landfill, which was set afire several hours later. 

The good news:  all of Ben’s men were intact even though they suffered bumps and bruises, cuts and sprains – they were all alive and well.  Bettencourt said they hit a checkpoint, the cigarette and cash payout was generous and they were allowed through.  For a moment, Ben let himself relax.  He said a silent prayer of thanks as he realized God hadn’t yet forsaken him.

Within minutes, his tired body dropped upon the mattress.  He took Lara’s shirt and inhaled her scent.  How wonderful it was to close his eyes and imagine her at this moment, in this dark and revolting place.  Lara, a beautiful thought to lull him to sleep.  He fell into deep slumber, but it didn’t last.  He woke once startled by a noise outside.  He instinctively reached for one of the two loaded weapons by his side.  Nothing happened, but he remained awake for a while.  Before sunrise he would leave in the Jeep and head back to Soto Cano. 

As he lay awake he contemplated the next stop: Cuba, Leeward Point Airfield.  Ben had visited Cuba when Gitmo was first populated.  At the time of his visit, there were nearly 600 terrorists being held.  Things were much different now.  The place had changed into a terrorist country club, a joke really.  It was no longer a prison-like atmosphere but one akin to a spa.  Qurans were provided and handled with the utmost care.  The United States didn’t want to insult a terrorist.  There was an exercise yard provided; tennis courts were built.  The detainees were allowed to congregate.  Even halal meat was served.  It was astounding to him.  No convenience or comfort was spared for these ruthless killers. 

Sunrise came too early.  Damn, he never felt so old and stiff in his life.  He wanted food and good hot coffee.  The Jeep ride back to Soto Cano was five hours long; thank God the driver brought breakfast.  The men ate croissants and drank coffee like they’d never seen food before.  When they finally got to the airport, they boarded Moshe’s C130J, freshly refueled and ready for the three and a half hour flight to Cuba. 

Ben reclined in the leather seat and smiled at Moshe.  “A little nap would be good right about now.”  He closed his eyes and instantly fell asleep with the din of the team in the background excitedly talking about the coming mission in Guantanamo Bay, then Pakistan.