Project StrikeForce (14 page)

It was the eyes that haunted him. They went wide,
the pupils dilating, but he had no time to waste as he saw. He saw Fletcher
struggling to pull a gun. Eric was still on the ground, dazed. Everything
slowed and he knew that Fletcher was going to kill Eric.

He couldn’t allow that.

He pulled his M11 and fired, two quick shots that
left his ears ringing as he hit Fletcher center mass, just like in the shooting
house.

Time sped up and he realized his mistake. He had
killed Fletcher, their target, the man with the caesium.

Oh no.

He turned and saw the man Eric killed, a wet spot
spreading across his pants as his bladder loosened.

He turned back to the first man, the one he kidney
punched, dead on the dusty white rock. The second man he killed lay there as
well, glassy eyes staring emptily. Eric scrambled up, grabbing Fletcher,
searching his jacket and his pockets.

He couldn’t take it. He lurched forward and
heaved, his body convulsing as he emptied his stomach of breakfast, the bitter
taste of coffee and bile burning his throat. He watched Eric open the door to
the storage unit, enter, then storm out, yelling in frustration. The rock
crunched as Martin, Kelly and Johnson roared up in the second van.

The mission had come up empty. There was no
caesium in the unit, and he just killed the man who could have told them where
it was.

His ear-piece crackled to life, jolting him back
to the present, and he heard Clark’s voice. “It’s a burner all right, purchased
two days ago at Walmart. The backtrack is triangulating his position from the
cell phone towers. We also have his incoming and outgoing phone calls. There’s
only one number, and it tracks back to another burner cell, purchased at the
same Walmart. We’re running a backtrack on that phone, too.”

Mark Kelly picked up the spent shell casings from John’s
M11 and handed them to him. He shook his head and Kelly shrugged, pocketing the
spent brass. Roger Johnson handed him two new bullets and said quietly, “Don’t
forget to reload.”

Numb, John thumbed the decocking lever and removed
the magazine from his M11, added the two bullets, and reinserted it. His hands
moved of their own accord, muscle memory ingrained from countless hours on the
gun range.

“We’ve got something,” Clark finally said. “The
other phone has gone off-air, but we have a day’s worth of data and a physical
convergence at a bar named the Rusty Bucket not far from your current
location.”

“Roger that,” Eric said. “The caesium has been
moved, we’ve probably only got a few hours before they notice these four
missing and everyone bolts. Can you ping the cell phones in the bar and start a
backtrack on each of them?”

“Already in progress.”

Eric addressed John and the men. “We’re going in.
If the caesium is on the move, it could be out of town or out of state before
we can stop it. We’ve got a limited window. Someone in the APR knows where it
is. We’ll level that place if we have to, but we
will
find that caesium.”

* * *

Kandahar, Afghanistan

The market buzzed with activity as
people tried to finish their shopping before evening prayers. As Deion and the
others threaded their Toyota down the dirt road, the Afghani men looked askew
at the Americans, then quickly looked away.

Another truck pulled up behind them and four men
in camos exited, each holding an HK416. They took up defensive positions while
managing to look causally bored. Their leader, a big raw-boned man named Joshua
Morse, gave Deion a nod.

The blistering heat was finally lifting, but he
still felt the trickle of sweat down his back. The air was full of smells, from
trash piles near the edge of the market, to the lingering smoke from outside
cooking. The market was lined with stalls selling bicycle parts, sandals, and
vegetables. Although he had been gone for over a year, it felt like he had
never left. He sighed as his radio crackled to life.

“We have eyes on you, Freeman. It’s clear.” The
voice belonged to Bill Burton, a Delta Operator everyone called Redman for the
constant wad of chew in his mouth. His men were staked out in positions on the
roof tops, waiting for Deion’s team to arrive.

Deion keyed the PRC-148. “Keep an eye out, Redman.
We can trust this guy for the meet, but that’s it.”

“Roger that, Freeman.”

Neil led them to a room in the back of a building
to meet General Azim’s representative. The room was dingy white, the rug on the
floor tattered and threadbare. The man waiting for them couldn’t have been
older than seventeen, with barest trace of a black beard, but he was old enough
to carry the AK-47 over his shoulder. Deion noted his robe, the sandals, the
dead eyes. Physically he was a kid, but his dead eyes proved he’d stopped being
a kid a long time before. Outside the sky was darkening, and the room was
meagerly lit by a single bulb on the ceiling. “What’s your name?” Deion asked
in fluent Pashto.

The young man registered shock and answered back
in Pashto. “You speak well for an infidel.”

“Thank you. I’m Deion.”

“I am Jaabir. General Azim would like you to know
the Taliban had nothing to do with the attack on your base.”

Deion raised an eyebrow. “Really? Why should I
trust General Azim?”

“The Taliban would not attack a small outpost in
the desert. We would only attack the foreign occupiers who were brandishing
their weapons against the brave and honorable Afghans who wished only to repel
the invading army.”

Nancy tapped him on the shoulder. “What’s he
saying?”

Jaabir drew back, glaring at her, but spoke in
broken English. “I do not speak to women. Their presence here is an affront to
Allah.”

“Settle down, Jaabir.” He turned to Nancy. “Relax.
Take Val and Neil and go outside. I want to talk to him alone.”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed, but she motioned Neil and
Valerie to the hallway, leaving him with Jaabir.

Once they had left the room, he continued, “My man
in Kandahar told you to pass along the message to Azim—”

“General Azim!”

“Sorry,” Deion corrected, “General Azim. The Army
will find out who did this. A lot of Taliban could get killed. A lot of
innocents, too. General Azim wants what’s best for Afghanistan. He’s a proud
man who knows that sometimes you have to work together for a common goal.”

Jaabir frowned, considering that. “You are not
like I expected.”

“How’s that?”

“I have seen television shows of America,” Jaabir
admitted. “I saw how black men are treated by the Christians who run the
country.” His eyes darted to the hallway, then back to Deion.

Deion smiled. The kid was earnest. “It’s
entertainment, Jaabir. It’s not a bad place. Someday Afghanistan will be like
that. You’ll lay down your weapons and your kids will go to school, get an
education, maybe get an opportunity like I did.”

Jaabir nodded. “I think I will probably die
fighting before that happens. I am committed to Jihad.”

“Of course,” Deion agreed.
That
’s the
problem with this place.
“You never know, though. Look at us right now.”

The boy nodded wisely. “General Azim said you
would be very kind to me so that I would turn to your cause.”

He tried a different approach. “I’m just trying to
find out who attacked our men. I don’t want a full-blown assault on Kandahar.
That wouldn’t be good for your people. I’m betting that General Azim doesn’t
want that, either. I’m betting he gave you instructions.”

Jaabir nodded. “He did. The attack was planned by
an Arab named Abdullah. He was considered to be a great Mujahideen, but General
Azim was always suspicious of this man. Abdullah planned the attack and carried
it out without consulting General Azim. General Azim would like you to know
that this man is no longer welcome in Kandahar.”

“What else can you tell me about this man,
Abdullah?”

The boy considered his words carefully, then spoke.
“He is known as Abdullah the Bomber. He disappeared for many years after the
war. Some said he went back home and some said he went on Hajj. He came back
with a wife but your drones killed her. He has committed himself to Jihad.”

Deion thought quickly. As far as he could tell,
the boy was telling the truth. “Jaabir, was there anything else General Azim
told you?”

Jaabir nodded. “We have one of Abdullah’s men.
General Azim will provide this man to you, as a show of respect.”

“Really? Any what does General Azim ask in return?
A gift must be answered with a gift.”

Jaabir nodded. “A gift is freely given, but if
answered with a gift it shows respect and honor.”

“And where might this man be kept?”

Jaabir smiled. “Not far from here.”

“Of course,” he said. “I must talk with my
people.”

Jaabir nodded. “I will return in one hour.”

He led the boy through the hallway to the front of
the building, then keyed his radio. “Status?”

“Clear,” Redman answered. “Freeman, sorry to tell
you, but we got a call while you were in the building. We have new orders to
return to base.”

“What? In the middle of the operation?”

“Sorry, Freeman. We’ve got our orders. Watch your
six.”

“Thanks, Redman. Much appreciated.”

He turned to Neil and nodded. Neil placed a brown
leather satchel on the floor and took a step back. Jaabir picked it up, nodded
to Deion, then exited the building without looking back. By the time they
entered the street Jaabir was long gone, lost in the twilight maze of buildings
and alleys. They got back in the Toyota.

“What was that all about?” Valerie asked.

“Azim’s quite the businessman,” Deion said.
“Sometimes he plays on the American side, sometimes on the Taliban’s. He knows
that sooner or later we’ll pull out and he’s jockeying for position. He’ll
fight us if he can, but he prefers to let the other Taliban do the fighting. If
he appears weak, Al-Qaeda would replace him in a heartbeat. He confirmed the
attacker was Abdullah the Bomber, and he’s got one of Abdullah’s men. We just
paid him one hundred grand in cash for Jaabir to lead us to him.”

Nancy shook her head, amazed. “I can’t believe
your cowboy routine actually worked.”

“Yeah, but we have a problem.” He paused,
considering his words. “I think you really pissed off my old boss, Rumple. If I
had to guess, he’s the one who got Delta recalled. We’re on our own.”

Nancy’s eyes widened and her face reddened. “I’ll
have his ass for this,” she spat out.

The Delta Operator from the second truck, Morse,
came forward to shake Deion’s hand. “We’re out. Redman says sorry and good
luck.”

“No problem. Thanks for the assist.”

He watched as the Operators got in their truck and
left. The market had cleared out while they were in the building, the bustling
throng of people dwindling, many of the carts now missing. A few remaining Afghanis
watched them with curios eyes, but most were busy tearing down their stalls in
the twilight.

“I’m a little worried,” Neil said.

“Me, too,” Valerie agreed. “We’ve got one drone
overhead and no support. I know you like to play cowboy, but this is insane.”

“I can take care of Rumple,” Nancy said, “but
it’ll take time. How long do we have?”

“Jaabir will be back in an hour,” Deion said.

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s a long time for us to
sit with our dicks in the wind.”

He started to speak but she interrupted. “It’s
your call, Deion. You know this area and you know the people.”

“Neil? How about you?” he asked.

Neil nodded but his eyes were wary. “I’ll back
your play but it’s a hell of a risk.”

“You’re all crazy,” Valerie said, “but if you’re
in, so am I.”

Denver, Colorado

ohn shook his head. The Rusty
Bucket was in a seedy part of town, the name painted in faded black letters,
the white exterior dingy gray from age. The sidewalk was cracked and broken,
and cigarettes and beer cans littered the front.

They were parked a block away, discreetly watching
the entrance, the second van parked behind them. No one had entered or left the
building in the thirty minutes they had been watching. “Not a happening spot,”
he muttered.

Martin laughed. “I’m glad you white boys are going
in. There’s Klan in there for sure.”

“Don’t worry,” Eric said. “We won’t send you in
there. You’d stand out like a big black sore thumb.”

“Your lack of empathy over my racial concerns is
disappointing,” Martin said, sadly shaking his head.

John liked the Martin’s sly wit, his easy
disposition, and his quiet confidence. Kelly and Johnson were both excellent
soldiers, but Martin was much like Eric—mature, responsible, and capable.

Eric fiddled with the radio, which was playing an
old Hank Williams song, then sighed. “Clark, have you got anything?”

John’s earpieces crackled. “The Rusty Bucket is
their known hangout,” Clark said. “Everett Dyer, the APR founder, is the
co-owner. We’ve tracked his cell-phone. It’s there now.”

“Are you sure?” Eric asked. “The place looks
dead.”

“We’ve backtracked other members of the APR. When
they reach that bar, their cell phones go off-network. We tried to remotely
activate them and use them as bugs, but they are unresponsive. They must be
shielding them, probably in a foil-lined bag or box.”

Kelly sighed through his ear-piece. “I hate it
when douchebags become technically competent.”

“I don’t like this,” Eric said. “Doesn’t this seem
too sophisticated for them?”

“Karen has a theory,” Clark said. “She thinks they
might try and sell the caesium to another white power group, or maybe
neo-Nazis.”

It was Eric’s turn to sigh. “How good is that
theory?”

“She’s given it a very low fidelity score, but it
remains a possibility.”

“Just great.” Eric turned to John. “You ready?”

He nodded, trying to quiet the butterflies in his
stomach.

“Good. Martin, stay here. Kelly, Johnson, I need
one of you, your choice.”

“I’ll go,” Kelly volunteered. “Nothing like overt
racism mixed with a side of jingoism to get the blood pumping.”

The butterflies had been replaced with
belly-flops. “Eric,” he interrupted, “can I talk to you for a minute?”

Eric eyed him. “Guys, hold here.” He motioned for
John to get out of the van. They exited and stepped behind the vehicle. “What’s
up?”

John stood, silent, then took out his ear-piece
and deactivated it with the edge of his thumbnail.

Eric looked puzzled but did the same.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he managed.

Eric smiled. “I told you, it wasn’t your fault.”

“I screwed up. If I’d left one of them alive, we
wouldn’t be blindly walking in there.”

Eric gazed at him thoughtfully. “It’s the
killing.”

He could not meet Eric’s gaze. “I’ve had this
dream for the past several weeks. I’m angry, very angry. There’s a crowd of
people and I want to hurt them. Then I wake up and I’m covered in sweat and my
heart is beating a million miles an hour. Now I’m feeling the same way, my
heart is beating like crazy and I’m scared that if we go in to that bar, I
might have to hurt someone.”

“You’re a good soldier,” Eric reassured. “The
dreams might be from the PTSD. I don’t know, I’m not a shrink. Did you tell Doc
Barnwell about any of this?”

“I know what happens if I speak to Barnwell. I
could be deemed unfit for duty. I don’t want people thinking I’m a basket
case.”

Eric spoke softly. “I’m sorry, but you have to
come to terms with it. You
will
have to kill. I’ve seen men who enjoy
killing, enjoy making people hurt and suffer. What we do in the OTM, we do for
the good of the country. You have to accept that. The people we kill, they’re
not good people, John. Of all the human beings on this earth, they are the ones
who dirty up the gene pool.”

“We don’t know that,” John said. “We don’t know
what these guys have done.”

“They’ve stolen enough cesium to make a city
uninhabitable. Think of the children and the elderly. There’s no way to
evacuate them all. The elderly could die immediately, the kids lost to leukemia
or lung cancer—they’re the bad guys, John. That makes us the good guys.”

The feeling in his gut still gnawed at him. “I
don’t feel like the good guy. I feel like a killer.”

Eric clasped him by the shoulders. “Sometimes we
gotta do what we gotta do. Tell me right now. Can you do this?”

John thought about the men he killed, about
weaponized caesium, about the dead who would weigh on his conscience. “I can do
it.”

Eric smiled. “Good. Get Kelly and let’s make this
happen.”

* * *

Eric entered first and squinted,
his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, his boots squeaking against the dirty
wood floor, John and Kelly close behind.

He tried to put John’s words out of his mind, but
kept going back to the nightmares. If John was starting to remember his past,
it could be a real problem for the project. Not to mention that he counted on
John to have his back.

In part, he agreed with him. He did not enjoy
killing, either, but to save a life he might have to take a life. God have
mercy on his soul, but he wouldn’t hesitate to kill one to save a thousand.

He knew it was unfair to resent John’s new-found
sense of morality. John no longer remembered the Red Cross bombing. In fact,
John was eager to please, constantly trying to impress with hard work and
determination. What galled him was that John was now his responsibility. He was
to befriend him, instill him with confidence, all the while knowing that he
might have to put a bullet in the back of his head.

He gritted his teeth. John had to perform. The
project depended on it.

He pushed the concerns out of his mind. He
couldn’t let the distraction get them all killed. He stepped forward again,
eyes finally adjusted to the dark.

The few overhead lights cast dim spots on the
floor, but he made out the long bar-top that took up the length of one wall. A
dozen square wooden tables filled the rest. The floor was stained and stale
beer and urine made the bar smell like a toilet.

The bartender glanced at them, a big man with a
red spider tattoo plastered around his bald head, a crooked nose from too many
breaks, and beady black eyes.

Two heavyset men wearing leather jackets with the
APR patches sat at one of the tables. He knew their type, shaggy hair and
beards, the start of pot-bellies from too much on motorcycles and too little
exercise. Two younger men in blue jeans and denim work shirts were in quiet
conversation at another table, nursing their beers.

The bikers glanced their way, then pretended to
ignore them. The younger men tracked his movement as he approached the bar.

He took a seat, resting his arms against the
sticky bar top. John and Kelly joined him. The bartender approached. There was
an awkward pause until Kelly spoke up softly. “Coors draft?”

The bartender squinted at them and nodded.

“Make it three,” Eric said.

The bartender poured the drafts and slid them
across the bar-top. He tossed a filthy bar-towel over his shoulder and walked
to the other end of the bar, leaned heavily against it, and lit a cigarette.

“Not exactly stellar customer service,” John said
quietly.

“What did you expect, it’s not even noon,” Eric
replied. “I recognize the two bikers by their rap sheets. No sign of Dyer.” He
caught the bartender’s eye and motioned. The surly man nodded and approached.
Eric noticed the lightness to his step.

A
b
oxer, maybe.

“Need something else?”

Eric nodded. “Yeah, I’m looking for a man named
Dyer.”

“Don’t know him.” The man started to turn.

“I think you do,” Eric said.

The bartender stopped, his glare still hostile.
“Lots of men come in here.”

Eric smiled. “This man preaches.”

The bartender laughed. “I don’t ask no questions
and they don’t tell no lies. If they want a drink, that’s their god given
right, preacher or not.”

“This man preaches a certain type of message. We
like that message.”

“I said, I don’t know any Dyer.” The big man
leaned forward. “Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it here.”

Eric decided to push the issue. “I’ve heard the
American Patriot Revolution gathers here. You sure you don’t know anything
about that? We like what they stand for.”

The bartender’s eyes narrowed. “You’d like to join
the APR? Do you believe in racial purity?” He eyes darted between Eric, John
and Kelly. “You say you like the APR. What’s the first rule of the APR?”

Luckily, Eric had glanced over their website. “Do
not mix with the races. We don’t. I’m of German descent, myself, and my friends
can trace their families back to England. Like I said, we want to meet Mr.
Dyer.”

The bartender nodded. “What’s the second rule of
the APR?”

“To take all means necessary to keep the races
separate but equal.”

“And the third?”

“To use whatever means necessary to restore this
country to its former greatness and to adhere to the Constitution as originally
written,” Eric responded quickly.

The bartender smiled. “Funny, most cops can get
that off the Internet. So, doesn’t mean shit that you know it. You come in here
with your cop haircuts and your cop eyes and spout some shit you memorized.”

Eric laughed. “I can promise you that we are
not
cops.”

“If you’re not cops, you’re something worse.
Federals, maybe. Either way, you need to move along. You’re done here.”

He heard the scraping of chairs behind them. John
and Kelly turned and he knew the four men had stood and were coming their way.

The bartender lunged forward, his hand scrabbling
for something under the bar. Eric drove his arm forward, the palm of his hand
not stopping until there was a popping crunch in the man’s nose. He turned to
see John hit the two young men like an offensive lineman, driving them back.

Kelly jumped from his bar stool and tried to
tackle the two bikers when one of them struck Eric a glancing blow to his head,
knocking him to the floor.

He shook his head and caught the other biker along
the neck with the heel of his hand and the man sank to his knees, stunned. He
turned to see the other biker kick Kelly in the ribs with his boot. Kelly
grunted in pain and doubled over.

John was rolling on the floor with the two young
men, then he jerked up and came down with his knee into the one’s chest. There
was a sickening crack as the sternum broke and the man went limp.

The second man tried to punch John in the crotch.
John jerked backwards and the man staggered up and tried to kick him, but John
smoothly pulled his M11 and put two bullets through the man’s chest and another
in the middle of his face, blood spraying from the back of the man’s head.

Kelly was still struggling with the other biker until
he caught the man’s foot and twisted, knocking him to the floor. Before the man
could react, Kelly was on him, gouging his eyes, then twisted the screaming man
around and put him in a choke hold, squeezing against his neck to stop the
blood flow to the man’s brain.

Eric turned to the other biker, the one he thought
stunned, but apparently not stunned well enough. The man flipped open a
serrated knife and took a lunging stab at him. He kicked the man’s hand and
felt the wrist break as the man gasped. The man went for his revolver but Eric
knocked it away, then grabbed him by his leather jacket and jerked him upright.
“Where’s Dyer?”

The man winced in pain and shook his head. “Fuck
you!”

John screamed, “Eric!”

He turned as the bartender came up from behind the
bar with a sawed-off shotgun. He jumped back, spinning as he went, and the roar
of the shotgun deafened him. Hot fire raked across his right arm and knew he
was hit, but then he heard the double wham of John’s M11.

The bartender slumped onto the bar, his dead
weight pinning him to the bar-top. The biker that Eric fought lay dead on the
floor, caught by the brunt of two barrels of double-ought buckshot, the side of
his head and shoulder bloody hamburger. He turned as Kelly continued squeezing
the other biker’s neck, his eyes red and bloody from ruptured blood vessels,
then a crunch as Kelly dropped the dead man to the floor.

He grasped his arm, cradling it. The pain burned
up and into his shoulder, but he knew it was a flesh wound. He shook his head,
trying to clear the dizziness. “John, check the bathrooms. Kelly, check in the
back. Dyer’s got to be here, somewhere.”

Kelly nodded and left through the back.

John kicked in the door to the men’s bathroom,
looking for Dyer.

He removed his jacket, gingerly pulling it over
his right arm, then took the first-aid kit from his jacket. He tore open the
small packet and sprinkled powder on the bloody wound. It burned like fire, but
the clotting agent kicked in, staunching the blood-flow, the painkiller
reducing the burning fire to a dull throb.

“Steeljaw? You need help?” Martin asked.

“Negative. Hold your position. Anyone tries coming
in, shoot them.”

“Roger that. Any wounded?”

“Just me. Hurts, but I’m fine.”

John came out shaking his head, then did the same
sweep of the women’s bathroom. “Clear,” he hollered

Kelly reentered the bar. “There’s no one in the
back,” he said. “Just a door to the alley.”