Hunt the Scorpion (22 page)

“Where the hell does he think this leads?” Crocker whispered to Akil’s back.

Farag stopped ahead of them, held a finger to his lips, and pointed to a spot in the ground. All Crocker saw was a round patch of earth. But when he focused harder in the low light, he was able to distinguish a round cover about four feet in diameter painted the same color as the dirt.

A dog howled in the distance as the three men quietly swung it open. Akil was the first to enter, holding a small flashlight that illuminated metal rungs along the side of a concrete tube.

They descended approximately thirty feet and reached the bottom, where they saw a concrete tunnel about twelve feet high and six wide that extended about sixty feet.

When they reached what they thought was the end, they saw that the tunnel curved left at a ninety-degree angle. The second leg was even longer. There was still no light, but they heard faint, muffled noises and proceeded carefully.

The closer to the end they got, the more distinct the sounds became. Voices at first. A man, then a woman whispering. Then what sounded like two people making love.

What the fuck?

They inched closer. A ribbon of light spilled out of a door ahead to their right.

The sounds of lovemaking grew louder. A woman approaching ecstasy screamed in English, “Harder! Faster! Yes!”

Fingers on the triggers of their weapons, they stopped. Farag pointed to the metal door and tried the lever. It wasn’t locked.

He nodded. Crocker nodded back, his heart leaping into his throat.

Farag lowered the lever and kicked the metal door open. Crocker pushed past him and entered with his MP5 ready. His brain picked up thousands of impressions at the speed of light—the size of the concrete room, the source of light, the number of occupants, the presence of weapons.

The second he saw one of them reach for his AK, he started shooting, raking the two men sitting with their feet up on an overturned table. Their bodies shook from the impact, bounced against their chairs, and slumped to the floor. They didn’t have time to scream.

But the sound of lovemaking continued. It was coming from a flat-screen propped against the wall, a DVD player on the floor beside it, wires snaking around.

A third man emerged from a room off a dark passageway behind the opposite wall, saw the three armed men and his dead colleagues, and started scrambling down the passage in the opposite direction.

Akil, his MP5 ready, started after him.

Farag reached out and stopped him. “No!”

Akil pushed the hand off his shoulder. “What do you mean, no?”

Crocker: “He’s right, Akil. Let him go.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

Akil used the flashlight to illuminate the passageway, which led to a ladder, just as Crocker thought it would.

Crocker removed the radio from his back pocket and said: “Manny, very soon you’re going to see an individual emerge from the ground somewhere on the field we just entered.”

“Anywhere on the field?”

“Affirmative.”

A few seconds later Mancini said excitedly, “Yeah! I see him.”

“Good.”

“You want me to grab him?”

“No! You and Mohi get in the Toyota and follow him. Don’t lose him, and don’t let him see you. I think he’s going to lead you to the rest of the group.”

“Ten-four.”

“Don’t fucking lose him. It’s important.”

“Don’t worry, boss. That’s not gonna happen.”

They spent the next few minutes rifling through the contents of the room and bathroom—half-empty bottles of Russian vodka, a box of crackers, several porno DVDs, two Glock pistols, a bag of pistachio nuts, a leather gym bag containing over a dozen cell phones, several grenades, two ski masks. Also a laptop and several thumb drives, which Crocker kept.

He went through the dead men’s pockets. One of them had a wallet containing a wad of dinars and pictures of him and his girlfriend. In the other he found a silver amulet like the one he had seen around the neck of the wounded Tuareg tribesman he had tried to save in Toummo.

“I think these are the guys we’re looking for,” Crocker said. “Let’s go!”

They climbed the steps at the end of the tunnel behind the bathroom and emerged in a corner of the field opposite where they’d entered.

They ran to meet Volman, Ritchie, and Davis, who were waiting by the fence.

“The guy sped off in a little dark blue Nissan sedan,” Davis said excitedly.

Ritchie: “Manny’s on his heels with Mohi. He’s headed south.”

“Let’s hurry!”

They piled into the Suburban. Davis gunned the engine; he’d raced stock cars as a young man and knew how to get the most out of a vehicle—even the bulky, clumsy Suburban they were in now.

Ritchie was on the radio communicating with Manny, then instructing Davis, “Make a right here. Look for a four-lane highway ahead. Get on it going south!”

Crocker sat throbbing on the middle seat, hoping against hope that the man would lead them to Holly.

Manny screamed through the radio, “Turn off at Al Belah Road.”

“Ask him how far.”

Manny over the radio, “You’ll see a stadium on your left.”

“How far?”

“You can’t miss it.”

Two minutes later Ritchie screamed, “There it is!”

Tires burning, they took the turnoff at sixty. Up a ramp, onto a dark, deserted street.

“Where now?” Davis asked.

Ritchie: “Keep going straight. Cut the headlights. Manny says you’ll see him parked next to a burnt-out truck. There’s one lone streetlight at the end of the block.”

Davis: “I see it! Yeah, I see it. There!”

“Stop. Park this thing in the alley.”

“You got it, boss.”

They slung their weapons over their shoulders, got out, and ran in a crouch behind the few parked cars to where the Toyota had stopped.

Mancini sat in the driver’s seat, loading his MP5, stuffing frag grenades and extra magazines in his pants pockets.

“Where the fuck did he go?” Crocker asked, stealing a glimpse at his watch.

“He entered a beat-up building around the block. You can’t see it from here.”

It was 11:38. His heart sank. They were running out of time.

“Where’s Mohi?”

“He went ahead to recon the place.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you go with him?”

“Calm down, boss. I was on the radio to you.”

“Sorry.”

“We’re gonna find her. I can feel it. We’re close.
Fidem tene.
”

“What’s that?”

“Keep the faith.”

Hearing footsteps approaching, they ducked behind the Suburban and readied their weapons. It was Mohi, out of breath. He pointed as he spoke a mile a minute in Arabic.

“What’s he saying?”

Akil: “It’s a five-story structure. Two vehicles parked out front. Men are loading shit into them, like they’re getting ready to leave. They’re moving fast.”

“Did he see a prisoner? Were they moving a female prisoner?”

“He says no.”

“Fuck!”

“Four large men. No woman. He thinks they’re just about ready to split.”

Crocker was thinking fast. “Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Wait. Ask him about the front gate.”

Akil: “What about it?”

“Ask him if there is one, and if it’s open.”

“It’s open.”

“Okay. Davis—you and Ritchie bring the Suburban around. Position it near the gate so you can block their escape if necessary. Manny, you take Mohi. Climb the wall and take the building from the rear.”

“Got it.”

“Make sure you’ve got your radio. Akil and Farag come with me. We’re going in the front gate. You guys know what to do. Shoot to kill any motherfucking terrorists. Look for the hostage—my wife!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Volman, you stay with the vehicle.”

Volman: “Good luck. I hope you find her safe.”

Crocker stole a look at his watch: 11:47. Thirteen minutes until the deadline.

He slapped Farag on the shoulder. “Ready?”

Farag flashed back a thumbs-up.

“Let’s go!”

They sprinted around the corner, spotted the five-story building, which looked badly damaged, and hid behind the six-foot-high compound wall.

Akil whispered, “Most windows missing. There are some flashlights or other kinds of lamps on the ground floor but no other internal lights.”

Crocker heard a car ignition start, then whispered, “Go!”

They turned the corner, weapons ready—a mixture of Glocks, MP5s, AK-47s. Saw two dark-haired men getting into a black pickup. Crocker dropped to his knees and opened fire.

“Not so fast, motherfuckers!”

The men returned fire. Bullets tore into the ground and flew overhead. Crocker scrambled for cover behind the open gate. Heard rounds slam into the metal. Reloaded. Akil crossed to the left side so he could get a better angle. Farag ran inside the compound and hid behind a low concrete wall that led to a stairway at the front of the building.

The dark-haired men directed most of their fire at Farag, to their left. Crocker saw that he was pinned and jumped out from behind the gate to try to pick off the shooters.

Headlights blinded him.

Akil shouted, “Boss! Get back!”

He saw the Nissan sedan speeding toward him on its way out of the compound, its rear tires kicking up dirt. He jumped behind the gate and didn’t see Farag rise and toss something in the direction of the pickup. The two men kneeling behind it dove for cover.

Meanwhile, the Nissan fishtailed out, men shouting and firing from the front and back seats. He heard it hurtle out the gate, then brake, followed by the sound of metal smashing into metal and shattering glass.

Automatic fire ringing from the street behind him and in front of him, Crocker had taken two steps into the compound when a big explosion rocked the area in front of the building and threw him back against the wall.

He came to gasping for breath, his head spinning, thinking
Jesus Christ, they killed Holly!

Everything started to break up inside him, but when the smoke and dust started to clear, he saw that the building in front of him was intact. The pickup lay on its side, and flames were shooting out of the hood.

Akil screamed into Crocker’s radio, “Boss! Boss, you okay?”

“What the fuck just happened?”

“Farag threw a grenade.”

“He could have fucking warned me,” he muttered, glancing at his watch. It was now 11:56.
Four minutes!

Akil reported, “Manny and Mohi are pinned down in back.”

“There’s another shooter in back?”

“Roger. Two at least.”

“Cover me,” Crocker said urgently into the radio. “I’m going in.”

He ran in a crouch past the burning pickup and saw Farag finishing off one of the downed men with his knife. He continued through the smoke and ran up six concrete steps into the building, which was a mess—bare concrete columns covered with graffiti, broken furniture, pieces of discarded cloth, plastic bags filled with garbage.

“Holly!” he called.

No answer. Just a hollow echo of his own voice, and gunfire.

Something was burning near the back of the building. Ferocious fighting continued from both the front and back. He ran up a set of stairs to the second floor. Saw mattresses, empty tin cans and bottles. A filthy bathroom with a toilet filled with shit.

Hearing footsteps behind him, he readied his MP5 and turned. Saw two feet through the drifting smoke. He was about to squeeze the trigger when he caught a glimpse of the wild tangle of dark hair.

“Farag! I almost shot you.”

“Your wife?” he whispered back.

“I haven’t found her, no.”

The Libyan pointed to the stairway and motioned upward. “I go.”

“Go ahead. I’ll join you.”

After he finished checking the second floor, Crocker hurried to the stairway, which was clogged with smoke.

Akil shouted over the radio, “Boss, we can’t get in. Too much fire on the first floor. Something big is burning, sending up a lot of black smoke. Where are you?”

“I’m on two, on my way up to three.”

“Get out before you’re trapped!”

“Fuck that.”

“The fire’s spreading. We’ve got no way to put it out!”

Crocker continued up the stairs two at a time. At the third-floor landing he heard Farag shout: “Crocker! Mista Crocker!”

“Where are you?”

“Here!”

“Where?”

All he could see was smoke and trash. He hurried to the back of the building and found Farag kneeling near a column. Tripped over a piece of thick rope and saw two backpacks lying on the floor. Another rope led to a digital timer that was counting down in hundredths of seconds—4:01.98, 4:01.97. Small green LED numbers descending fast.

This floor is rigged to blow!

Running out of breath, he reached for Farag’s shoulder. “Farag, we gotta get—”

On the other side of the column he saw someone with long hair. He blinked to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. It was Holly! She was taped to a metal chair, with thick silver tape covering her mouth. As soon as she saw Crocker, tears started to fall from her eyes.

“Holly, sweetheart! Oh, my God…”

Farag opened a pocketknife and started trying to cut her free.

Crocker squeezed her arm. He wanted to hug and kiss her, but there was no time.

Emotion coursing through him, he saw Farag struggling with the tape and pushed him away. “Forget it! We’re running out of time!”

He handed him his MP5 and picked up the chair with Holly in it. “Let’s get the hell out of here! Follow me!”

He ran to the stairway with the chair and Holly in his arms. Thick black smoke curled around their heads. They’d made it down to the landing, eyes and throats burning, when Crocker saw flames shooting up and realized they couldn’t get through.

He slapped Farag on the arm and pointed upward. Returning to the third floor, he thought fast. He found the rope, determined that it was long enough, and tied it around the top of the metal chair.

Then he grabbed the radio from his back pocket. “Akil!” he shouted. “We’re trapped up here. Tell me, are you able to safely approach any part of the building?”

“The front is the clearest, boss. How come?”

“I’m going to climb out one of the front windows. Look for me. I’ve got Holly. I’m going to lower her down.”