Blaze of Glory (17 page)

“Move out,” Moyer ordered. He gave Rich a moment to lead J. J., Jose, and Pete to a northerly approach. His would be the longer journey.

“You want me to take point, Boss?” Zinsser asked.

Moyer started to say no, then changed his mind. He had a tendency to be overprotective of any new member of his team. Zinsser was with him instead of Rich, but Zinsser wasn’t a raw recruit.

“Take it, Data. Just don’t fall down any rabbit holes.”

“You know what you get when you pour melted butter down a rabbit hole, Boss?”

“Do I want to hear the rest of this?”

“You get hot cross bunnies.”

Moyer lowered his head. “Please tell me you got better jokes than that.”

“Sorry, Boss. That’s my A material.”

De Luca looked at Moyer. “We’re doomed.”

“Ready to rock, Boss.” He pulled his balaclava over his face.

“Do it.” Moyer donned his black mask.

Zinnser started forward in a slow, careful jog. Moyer followed two meters behind, his eyes straining against the dark.

ZINSSER SOON FEEL INTO a well practiced breathing pattern, forcing himself to inhale deeply and exhale fully. His boots landed in even footfalls. Tempted as he was to fix his eyes on the ground before him, he forced himself to scan everything in front of him. Tripping might be bad; getting a bullet in the head would be worse.

He had little fear of the latter. Zinsser trusted technology. It had helped him get through the endless hours he spent in the hospital. If the FLIR said no humans were in the area, then there were no humans in the area. Still, being “Army strong” meant being Army smart. He had no problem playing it by the book.

His heart increased its pounding but brought no strain. The pace was easy. Soon all he could hear was the sound of his boots impacting the grass-covered ground.

His ears picked out a distant sound.

A pop.

A whiz.

His head began to tingle as if ants were crawling through his hair.

A shot.

An AK-47.

Zinsser dropped to the ground, head down. A second later he raised his head to scan the terrain. Where had the shot come from?

Voices. Distant voices. Somali voices.

“Data.”

To his right?

Another shot.

No, to his left.

“Data?”

That voice was clear and close. Someone needed him. “Brian . . . Echo.”

“Zinsser!”

Zinsser activated his radio. “Echo, this is Zinsser, where are you?”

“I’m down.”
The voice wasn’t in his radio. It came from inside his head. Something was wrong.

“Say again, Data?”

That voice came over his earpiece, but the timbre was wrong. It was deeper, thicker.

“Data, this is Shaq. Say again.”

Someone touched his shoulder. He rolled on his side and reached for his sidearm. The 9mm slipped from the holster easily, and Zinsser started to bring it to bear when a heavy weight landed on him, driving the air from his lungs. His arm was pinned.

“Get off me, you dirty—”

A hand clamped his mouth shut.

“Zinsser!” The voice was familiar and just above a whisper—and the urgency was unmistakable.

Zinsser blinked. The sounds were gone. The terrain was no longer a Somali street but an open field.

“Boss, you guys okay?”

“Standby, Shaq. Hold your position.”

“Roger that.”

Zinsser’s brain tried to settle the confused images in his mind. Lying two feet from him was an angry Moyer. De Luca sat on Zinsser, pinning his arm and sidearm to his body, his hand pressed over Zinsser’s mouth.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t have happened. Not here. Not now. Not with these people. Zinsser closed his eyes and wished his heart would stop beating.

“Look at me, Data.” Moyer spoke through clenched teeth. “I said
look at me.
”

Zinsser gazed at Moyer and pictured, behind the black knit mask Moyer wore, a stone face chiseled with anger. Moyer’s eyes, however, which should have flashed with fury, were tempered with concern. “Are you with me?”

“Yeah, Boss. I’m with you.”

“You have ten seconds to tell me what just happened.”

Zinsser thought quickly. “I thought I heard something.”

“Who is Echo?”

“Echo? Echo was on my last team. Did I say Echo? I meant Shaq.”

Moyer’s eyes narrowed and Zinsser could imagine the gears of his team leader’s brain turning. “You were going to shoot me, weren’t you?”

“Shoot you? Why would I shoot you?”

“Then why did you draw your handgun?”

“I wouldn’t shoot you, Boss. It would be a bad career move on my part. Why would I do that?”

“Because you thought you were somewhere else. Where were you?”

“I’m right here—in Italy—chasing bad guys with you.”

“Listen to me, Data, and listen good. We got a situation here. I need to know you’re with me mentally.”

“I’m with you, Boss, body and mind. You got all of me.” Zinsser could see some of the tension leave Moyer’s face. “I’m fine, Boss. Good to go. I know where we are and what we’re doing.”

“That a fact?”

Zinsser took a breath. “We’re in Italy, in the countryside outside of Rome. We are a seven-member team. You’re leading me and Polo here on a direct approach to what we believe is an abandoned bus used to carry female suicide bombers. Shaq is leading the rest of the team—Colt, Doc, and Junior—on an approach from the north.”

Moyer said nothing.

“Any chance you can get the Italian off of me? He’s making it hard to breathe.”

Moyer spoke into his radio. “Shaq, report.”

“We’re in position, Boss. The area appears clear. No movement in or around the bus. You guys okay?”

“Yeah. Hold your position. We’ll be there in three.”

“Holding position. See you in three.”

Moyer pushed to his knees then put his face close to Zinsser’s. Zinsser could smell coffee on Moyer’s breath. “I don’t know what just happened, but I have suspicions. We’re going to carry on with our approach and you’re going to stay focused on this mission. Is that clear?”

“Clear as glass, Boss.”

Moyer paused, then added, “I’ve never had to shoot a team member before, but if I think you’re about to draw down on me or any other member of the team, I’ll drop you. Got it?”

“Yes, Boss.”

“You continue on point. I want you in front of me.”

“Will do, Boss.”

“Let him up, Polo.”

De Luca crawled off Zinsser but kept a grip on the hand that held the sidearm. Slowly Zinnser slipped the weapon back into its holster. “Waiting on your word, Boss.”

“Move out.”

Zinsser was on his feet, moving forward as he had been a few moments before. The night vision goggles narrowed his peripheral vision, and he was glad. He didn’t want to see how often Moyer and De Luca were checking him out.

AS EXPECTED, THE BUS was empty. Moyer, Zinnser, and De Luca arrived at the coppice of trees three minutes after they resumed their stealth approach. Rich and the others had waited as told. During that time they saw no one. The area was clear of potential enemies. Still, Moyer sent them as if black hats were waiting inside the bus for anyone stupid enough to approach.

“Clear,” Rich declared once he and J. J. made entry into the minibus.

“Still a step ahead,” J. J. said. “By the way, what happened to you guys? We heard Data’s transmission, but it didn’t make sense.”

Time to nip this in the bud. He couldn’t afford to have the team speculating. “Nothing happened. Now—”

“But we heard—”

Moyer skewered J. J. with a glare. “I said nothing happened.”

J. J. lowered his head. “Gotcha, Boss.”

Moyer turned to De Luca, who was placing his cell phone to his vest. “Well?”

“Nothing. The pilot has been doing a circular search pattern but hasn’t found anything but a few small vehicles on the roads—nothing the size of a minibus or a caravan that could hold enough people to fill even half this bus.”

“They could have hidden several cars here and driven off in different directions,” Jose said.

“Maybe, Doc, maybe.” Moyer thought for a moment. “Okay, fan out. Let’s see if we can find some kind of tracks or clues. Don’t waste time; we’re already behind.”

The team began to move when Moyer said, “Zinsser, you’re with me.”

Moyer led the newest member of his team to the edge of the small grove, then stopped and gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “So, do I send you back or what?”

Zinnser looked away.

“I asked you a question.”

“I want to stay.”

Moyer ran a hand across his chin, glad to have the mask off. “How bad is it?”

“What?”

“Your PTSD.”

“The docs checked me out for months and gave me the all-clear. I don’t have a problem with post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Irritation heated Moyer’s chest—and his words. “Any soldier who’s seen what you have is probably struggling with it. Don’t lie to me. I have to be able to trust you. For all I know, if De Luca hadn’t pounced on you, you might have put a hole in my head. I want the straight skinny.”

Zinsser looked down for a moment and then raised his head to look Moyer in the eye. “Every once in awhile, I flash back.”

Good. The truth. He could work with the truth. “Like you did at the villa?”

“Yeah, it usually lasts only a few moments. Most of the time I can control it.”

“
Most
of the time? Is that what I heard?
Most
of the time? I need you and your brain present 100 percent of the time. Ninety-nine percent isn’t enough.”

“Understood, Boss.”

“Protocol requires I pull you from this mission and send you home. You are a danger to this mission and to the team.”

“I . . . understood, Boss.”

Moyer looked around. “If we were close to base . . . We can’t afford to waste any more time. For the moment we’re stuck with you. Shaq is assistant team leader so I’ll have to let him in on this, and he isn’t going to like it.” Moyer raised a finger. “I’ll get you home first chance I get. And if one of the team gets so much as a splinter because you fail to perform, I’ll make sure you’re drummed out of the service. If I lose a man because of you—”

“I know, Boss, you’ll hunt me down and put a bullet in my brain.”

“Oh no, I’ll do much worse than that. I’ll make sure you live a long, miserable life with your failure. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Dismissed.”

As Zinsser jogged to join the others, Moyer wondered if his threats would help or hurt.

CHAPTER 20

THE AGUSTAWESTLAND AW109 SLOWED its descent and its retractable landing gear appeared. Moyer and the team stood twenty meters away from the landing site. J. J. had made the discovery and called Moyer to an area a short distance away from the stand of trees.

“Looks like prop wash to me, Boss.” He pointed to an area of tall grass that had been pressed to the ground. J. J. squatted and touched the ground. He motioned with his flashlight beam. “The soil is soft and there are two long narrow depressions.”

“Like helicopter skids.” Moyer looked around them. “It would have to be one of the larger copters.”

“A Bell 412 corporate chopper carries something like fifteen passengers.”

“That’d probably do it,” J. J. said.

“This just gets better and better.” Moyer pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to force his thoughts into formation. “The helicopter would give a level of mobility they’d never have with a car, not to mention speed.”

“They’d have to fly low to stay off radar,” Shaq said.

“Another advantage.”

Moyer had De Luca put in a call for transportation. The Italian Army sent the AW109. Less than sixty seconds after its gear touched down, the team was aboard and headed to Naples.

Over the horizon the sun rose, pushing its rays through a bank of clouds. The color reminded Moyer of blood.