The Forgotten Soldier: A Pike Logan Thriller (30 page)

59

N
ick Seacrest felt the sweat build on his neck, the cold weather belying why it was forming. He was scared. No two ways about it.

He’d moved to the south of the park, and just as Pike had said, the footpaths went from wide, twenty-feet-across affairs, to small, single tracks threading throughout the trees and shrubs. If he weren’t careful, he’d become lost in the maze.

He’d found a park bench tucked underneath a row of bushes and flanked by two ancient trees. The foliage was spilling out more than it should, unkempt and threading through the slats of the bench, looking like a man who used to be able to afford a salon haircut but now just lived with cutting it himself. Another casualty of the Greek economy, but something that worked in his favor.

He’d glanced behind the bench, but couldn’t penetrate more than four feet into the undergrowth. Perfect for . . . whatever he was supposed to do.

He sat on the bench, waiting, analyzing the coming fight, trying to rehearse in his mind how he would attack. He scrambled to remember the hundreds of incapacitation moves he’d learned on the mat in the gym, all of them running through his mind in an endless loop as he considered, then discarded, then considered again.

He’d had plenty of training in hand-to-hand combat, and could
defend himself in just about any situation—in fact,
had
defended himself—but this was different. In the past, it had been in the heat of combat, with his life on the line and the fight forced on him, screaming and clawing while a battle raged around him. Here, he was supposed to clinically render a man unconscious without raising an alarm to anyone else wandering through the park. By himself.

This is insane.

His earpiece clicked, startling him. “Pike, Pike, this is Blood. My target’s down and hidden.”

“Roger that. Good work. I need you to return to the hotel and get our car. Stage on the southernmost exit on the east side. The one away from the presidential palace and the guard force.”

“Could take some time. Can you maintain control until I get back?”

“Yeah, I think so. There’s another gazebo down there where we can hold up. Between Knuckles and me, we should be good. We’ll keep the Arab company. Just don’t take too long.”

“Roger all.”

Nick then heard his own callsign. “Veep, Veep, you still good?”

He mustered his “radio voice,” the one he used when talking to aircraft. The one that always sounded calm and collected, no matter the bullets flying around or the begging of teammates for steel on target. “This is Veep. Roger.”

“I got Koko in sight. Your targets are going to get visual in about ten seconds. You have control.”

Nick took a deep breath and said a final “Roger.”

The pressure was incredible. It was unlike anything he’d experienced in the past. Nick was a Combat Controller and he was damn good at his job. He’d been on the tip of the spear for close to ten years, and had seen combat in both Iraq and Afghanistan—where he’d had the misfortune of being blown up by an IED.

He’d fought to stay in Special Operations after that, but his
national pedigree of being the vice president’s son had intervened. Everyone was too worried about what the headlines would be if he was killed. Too worried about the press. He’d been forced to reclass into another, safer military occupational specialty. He’d hated it. Then, out of the blue, he had met Pike Logan and had back-ended an invitation to the Taskforce. A unit that didn’t even exist. And he’d been allowed to train. Now he was wondering what he had been thinking.

One minute they were seriously discussing killing an American Taskforce member, the next he was in a park preparing to take down a man he wasn’t even sure was bad. And the speed of operations was something else again. He’d started the morning doing nothing but countersurveillance but now was going to end it as either a hero or a goat. It was a different world, and it brought fear, but not about the fact that he was preparing to go hand-to-hand with two armed men. No, it wasn’t the danger. It was a massive fear of screwing up. Of letting down Pike and the rest of the team. Of proving once and for all that he wasn’t worthy of membership in the most exclusive club on Earth.

Jennifer came on, saying, “Veep, I’ve got your marker. We’re one minute out. We’re dragging the two anchors behind us. You take Tracksuit. I’ll get the other one.”

Controlling his breathing, clenching and unclenching his fist, Nick said, “Roger. I got Tracksuit.”

He decided he’d attack with a come-along joint lock to bring the man to his knees, then subdue him with a rear naked choke. Simple, basic moves that he knew well. His adrenaline was so great he was afraid of losing the fine motor skills required for anything more complex. Those two moves were muscle memory. Easy to execute.

He mentally went through the motions in his head, visualizing exactly how it would go down. He wondered if Jennifer was doing the same thing. Then the fact that there were
two
men coalesced.

She’s got the second guy. What if she can’t take him down?

For the first time, he had doubts about something besides himself.

Can she do it?
He remembered her words about the House of Pain, something he’d barely managed to survive. It was a culmination event at Taskforce Assessment and Selection, whereby the candidate had to initially fight one, then two, finishing with taking on three Taskforce Operators, all acting as role players in a hand-to-hand slugfest, fighting through each level until he either succeeded or was knocked out.

How did she know about that?
Surely she hasn’t done the House of Pain.

Has she?

60

N
ick’s earpiece came alive. “Pike, Pike, this is Knuckles. My target set is moving south. Deeper into the park. They aren’t following behind Carly.”

“What’s your read?”

“I think they’re going to try to cut her off. Get a team in front and a team behind.”

“Inside the thick area?”

“Yep.”

“Perfect. I’m moving your way.”

Nick heard the calls and was amazed at the smoothness. Almost as if they were deciding on a movie to see instead of conducting three separate hostile takedowns in a foreign country. It was a skill he yearned for. A unit he desperately wanted to prove capable of joining. And he’d know in the next few minutes.

Jennifer came on. “Thirty seconds. Get ready. Anchor is about twenty feet behind me. I’ll pass you, then pause to look at something. They should stop right in front of you, waiting on me to move.”

“Roger all. I’m set.”

“Tracksuit is on your side. Take him down quickly. Once I commit, I’ll be occupied. I can’t deal with both.”

You’ll
be occupied? It dawned on him that she was worried about
his
capabilities.

“Got it.”

He caught a flash of movement on the trail, and saw Jennifer and Carly walking abreast, brushing the bushes on either side, walking as if they had more concern of the weather than what was about to occur. They passed him, and Jennifer glanced his way.

She winked.

He couldn’t believe it.

His eyes tracked behind her and saw the two men. For the first time, he sized them up for a fight. Tracksuit was a slender man of about five-six, while his friend was closer to six feet, with a large beer gut. Neither one was that imposing.

On the plus side, they were the same ones he’d spotted before, giving him some comfort. There was no way they would be following if they bore no ill will. They drew abreast of his bench and stopped suddenly. He looked down the trail and saw Carly pointing into the shrubs. He wondered what she was looking at, then realized it was the execute order.

Go time.

Tracksuit was directly in front of him, right foot back, left foot forward, half facing him.
Joint lock, right wrist, right elbow.

He sprang up and leaned forward, slapping one hand on Tracksuit’s wrist and the other on the man’s elbow. He slid his thumb over the joint of the man’s middle finger, then drew out, holding the elbow. Nick quickly rotated, expecting the man to drop to his knees from the pain.

He did not. Instead, he shouted and turned with the move, spinning in the same direction as Nick and ripping his hand from Nick’s grasp, then clamping his other hand on the one Nick had at his elbow, clawing to pry it free.

Nick was stunned, his plan of attack in disarray. Like reliving a bad car wreck and trying to ascertain what had gone wrong, Nick couldn’t comprehend how the man had escaped. Then his brain
exploded with the answer:
You rotated the wrong way. You had no lock. You had no control.
He’d screwed up in the most amateur way possible. Instead of bringing Tracksuit to his knees, all he’d done was telegraph his intentions.

Desperately trying to regain the momentum, fighting for control of the arm he still held, he threw a weak jab to Tracksuit’s face, seeing something fly through the air in his peripheral vision.

Jennifer landed on the second man’s back like a demented baboon. In the span of a millisecond, she rotated her legs over the man’s shoulders, riding his upper back like a teenager in a failed swimming pool chicken-fight. He flailed his arms ineffectually, trying to dislodge her, and she locked her legs under his chin, using her shinbones to cut into his carotid arteries. She reached over his shoulder and grabbed her foot, pulling it up and burying his neck into the blade of her shin.

Before Nick even registered that Jennifer was in the fight, Tracksuit swung a roundhouse that connected with his nose, causing an explosion of stars. He stumbled back, raising his fists to protect himself. The man came in strong, throwing jabs and kicks, most connecting in one way or another. On the defensive, Nick blocked what he could, knowing he was losing the initiative and trying to formulate a new plan of attack.

He was failing.

Behind Tracksuit, Nick saw Carly kick Jennifer’s target behind the knees, and he collapsed like a felled tree, Jennifer still locking out the blood to his brain in an iron grip. Tracksuit reached behind his back, and Nick knew the threat that was coming. He forgot all about his plan, resorting to pure size and fury. And an adrenaline borne of fear.

He charged forward, ducking low, wrapping up Tracksuit’s arms and driving him back like a blocking dummy on a football field. The man shouted, and they hit Nick’s bench at full speed, Nick driving Tracksuit over it backward. They landed hard in the shrubs, Nick’s weight knocking the air out of the man below him. Not giving any
respite, Nick slapped the weapon out of the man’s hand, then jackhammered Tracksuit’s face over and over, like an MMA fighter waiting on the referee to end the match, the other fighter clearly done.

Jennifer did so, jerking Nick’s arm before he could land another blow. He looked up, nose bloody, breathing heavily. She said, “You won. Help me with my guy.”

He looked down, and Tracksuit’s face was a gory mess. He was out cold.

Nick wiped the red snot from his own nose, and Jennifer offered her hand. He rose, a little unsteadily, then helped her drag her target into the brush.

Embarrassment seeping through, he waited on her to make the call, knowing it would be trouble for him. She keyed her radio and said, “Pike, Koko. Both targets down.” She winked at him, then said, “No issues.”

Nick felt the relief flow. It was over, and he hadn’t screwed up.

Jennifer said, “Let’s clear out of here.”

Face flushed with adrenaline, Carly nodded. “Good call.”

Jennifer said, “Thanks for the help on that takedown.”

Carly smiled and said, “I thought I was a badass, but, man, that was some Jason Bourne shit.”

Nick shrugged and said, “Thanks.”

Carly raised an eyebrow at his words. “Seriously? You thought I was talking about you? I’ve seen better fighting from a third-grade schoolyard.”

Nick felt the flush climb up his cheeks and Jennifer laughed. “Don’t worry, Veep. I’ve been there. You’ve got some pressure as a newbie, and you did fine.”

He smiled back, surprised at her deference. She had shown considerable skill, and could have hammered him like Carly, but she did not.

He genuinely liked her.

He grinned and said, “You didn’t do too bad yourself.”