Blaze of Glory (9 page)

DELARAM SAT IN THE backseat of an American-made SUV and watched the country scenery scroll by lit by a bone-colored moon. The skyline of Rome and its thick traffic receded in the distance. Delaram had been down this road countless times over the last two weeks. Each time she said it would be her last. She followed these men because she had to, and so tight was their grip on her mind and soul she had been unable to resist. Their cocky attitude allowed her to live on her own as long as they never had to go looking for her.

She should have run.

She should have sought help.

She should have done so many things, but she did nothing. How could she?

Her stomach began to roil as the first images invaded her mind again, just as they had a thousand times before. Just as they did every hour, sometimes every minute.

The pictures were horrible. The threats horrifying. The . . . She clamped her eyes shut willing the tears back. She refused to cry in front of these people.

Thirty minutes later the driver pulled from the road and motored down a graded dirt path. It would take five minutes before they reached their destination. She looked at the distant hills and wished she could be on the other side of them, far from this vehicle, far from the two men in the car.

The man next to her shifted in his seat. He had said nothing beyond the few words spoken at the coffee shop. He never did. Nor did he exchange words with the driver. Silence was the norm. Once, however, the driver had called the other man Abasi. All she knew about Abasi was that he was tall, thin, dark-skinned, spoke with an Egyptian accent, and smelled of strong cigarettes.

The road slowly rose to a crest. Once the vehicle crested the rise Delaram could see the ranging villa illuminated by the moon and decorative exterior lights that cast drapes of golden light on white stucco walls. Italian tile blanketed the roof. Delaram came from a very rich family. Her life was spent traveling or living in private schools around the world. She had lived in massive, rented mansions, each of equal or higher quality as the villa she was approaching.

From the outside the compound looked palatial. Inside was a different matter. While expensive art hung on walls, budget-breaking rugs covered teak floors, and the latest high-tech entertainment could be found in every room, there were things that made the building seem like the lobby to hell.

The car pulled to a massive iron gate and stopped. The driver turned on the overhead lights and flashed the vehicle’s headlights three times.

An armed man stepped through an iron gate the size of a doorway and approached. The driver lowered the windows and sprung the latch to the back door that opened. The guard shone a light in the front seat, backseat, and searched the cargo area. Delaram thought it a waste of time. These men knew each other, worked together. Yet the procedure never changed.

A few moments later the large gate swung open and the driver pulled the car onto the long concrete drive that led to a tall, wide porte-cochere.

Delaram waited for the driver to open her door. Once she had let herself out, but a swift backhand had put an end to any future foolishness. Only after the driver arrived at the door did Abasi exit. Then they took positions to either side of Delaram like bookends and escorted her to the front door.

If she ran, she would die.

Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

CHAPTER 10

A HAND ON MOYER’S shoulder woke him. “Sorry to wake you, Sergeant Major, but we’re on final approach to Darby Air Force Base. I need you to swivel your seat back into place and raise the seat back. Also please make sure your seat belt is fastened.”

“Thanks. Will do, Airman.” Moyer glanced at his watch: 0400 local time.

The young man smiled, turned, woke Rich, and repeated the message. Soon he had awakened every member of the team and the off-duty crew.

As the steward came forward again, he engaged Moyer. “Ever been to Italy before?”

“Nope. I don’t travel much.”

The airman chuckled. “Yeah, I bet you don’t. Once your . . . what did you call it? Training mission?”

“Yup.”

“Once your training mission is over you should take a few days to visit the north country. Fabulous sites. Food is great.”

“I’ll remember that, son. I travel like a salesman.”

The airman looked puzzled. “Excuse me?”

“I fly in, see the airport, see the base, see the airport again, and fly home.”

“I’m familiar with the problem. My father is a business consultant. He’s been in every major city in the U.S. and, according to him, seen none of them.”

Moyer wanted to tell the man that he had seen parts of some cities no one should see, but let the conversation go. It was time to think of other things.

CAMP DARBY CONDUCTED ITS business near Pisa, Italy, and had done so since 1951. Named after General William O. Darby, who died in combat in northern Italy during World War II, the camp served as home to twenty-six Army, Air Force, and Department of Defense tenants. Among the military, the base’s greatest claim to fame was its tourist appeal. Moyer’s briefing revealed that 80,000 tourists visit the area annually. The base was one of the few in the world with access to the beach front. Not far away was the city of Pisa with its leaning tower. Any other time such sights would interest Moyer, but for the moment he had other things on his mind. The fact that many military personnel made the area their vacation spot created one more layer of secrecy for Moyer and the team.

The airman had been a little broad in his announcement that they’d land at Camp Darby. The aircraft touched down at Galileo Galilei International Airport, a facility that served the
Aeronautica Militare,
the Italian Air Force.

The men joked and chatted while they deplaned and climbed into the Fiat Ducato minibus that waited for them. As they headed toward the Via Aurella Sud, Rich Harbison gazed back at the C-37A. “I gotta get me one of those.”

“On your salary?” Pete said. “You can’t afford to have the thing washed.”

“How do you know I’m not a man of means?”

“Because you’re U.S. Army.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.”

The banter died once the small bus pulled away from the airport. Moyer knew his men well enough to recognize their weariness. No one complained. They never complained. He also knew they were thinking about the mission. If they weren’t sleeping, then they were thinking. It’s how their mission worked. Moyer’s own thoughts ricocheted from his family to his mission.

Female suicide bombers—the world has lost its mind.
Battles should be fought by warriors willing to die for their cause; not cowards who hid behind civilians; who used noncombatants to do what they didn’t have the guts to do themselves.

The early morning sun pushed the silvered moon back to the horizon. Traveling across the Atlantic played havoc with Moyer’s sense of time. He looked at his watch and did the math: nearly ten hours in the air and local time was six hours ahead of the U.S. East Coast: that made it close to 2330 back home. That made it 0530 here. They had flown through the night. His body was yearning for bed while everyone in Pisa was having breakfast.

The van pulled to the main gate of Camp Darby and was waved in by a bored looking MP. Outside the single enlisted barracks, a boyish looking major met them.

“Welcome to Italy, the sweetest duty in the military.”

Moyer snapped a salute as soon as his feet touched the macadam of the road. “Thank you, sir.”

The major returned the salute. “Put your men at ease, Sergeant Major. It’s breakfast time here, but I’m betting you guys could use a little time in the rack.”

“We slept on the plane, sir.”

The major smiled. “I’ve made that trip a few times. No one sleeps on a plane. At best, we nap. Let me show you the barracks. I have a room for each member of your team. Grab some shut-eye. You have a meeting in four hours and Colonel Tyson doesn’t like to see any yawning, if you catch my drift.”

“Understood, sir.”

“You won’t have any trouble finding your way around the barracks. I’ll make sure you have some chow before the meeting. You want breakfast or lunch?”

“Lunch, sir. It’s best if we eat at local time. Easier to adjust that way.”

“I’ll take both,” Rich said. He grinned.

Major Barlow studied the big man for a moment. “I make it a point not to argue with men twice my size.” He returned his attention to Moyer. “Get some rest. Fall out.”

Moyer thought it the best order he had received in a long time.

CHAPTER 11

DELARAM DIDN’T SLEEP. AT least not that she remembered. The night crept by, minutes passing like hours, leaving her to stare at the ceiling. Pale light pressed past sheer drapes casting shadow monsters on the wall. The shadows didn’t frighten her; the monsters on the other side of the door were the real ones.

When she stepped into the room she saw a figure curled beneath a white sheet in one of the two beds. The figure didn’t move at the sound of the door opening and Delaram’s entrance. The guard shut the door with a bang loud enough to wake a corpse, but still the woman on the bed refused to move. For a moment Delaram wondered if the thin woman was dead, expired from grief. Sitting on the second bed in the room, Delaram waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark. She saw the woman’s chest rise and fall. Not dead; just too scared to move.

Delaram removed her slip-on sneakers and reclined on the bed. Her mind twisted and turned, unable to form a single line of thought. Emotion boiled just beneath the surface and she fought it, stuffing it into some narrow corner of her being.

A soft murmur bubbled from the other bed. Despite what must be heroic efforts, the other woman began to weep softly. Delaram wanted to comfort her, to utter words that would give the tortured soul a glimmer of hope, but she had no hope to give, no words of encouragement to offer. After an eon of moments, Delaram said, “Mother and father.”

Ten seconds passed before the other woman said, “Husband and son.”

The remaining hours of darkness passed in silence.

Moonlight surrendered to sunrise; pale ivory light yielded to salmon glow of the dawn. Delaram looked at her watch—6:45.

The door to the room swung open and a tall man with a ragged beard stepped in. He carried a small machine gun. “Get up.” He spoke Arabic.

Delaram swung her feet over the bed and slipped her sneakers on. She hadn’t bothered to undress. She stood.

The woman in the other bed didn’t budge, the sheet covered her head.

“I said, get up.”

When the woman refused to move, the man growled, stepped to the bed and pointed the weapon at the woman’s head, gently laying the barrel over her temple. “Do not make me angry, woman.”

Delaram crossed the room and laid a hand on the machine gun. She didn’t have the courage to touch the man.

“She’s frightened. Let me.”

The man jerked the gun away, the front sight scrapping Delaram’s hand. She let slip a cry of pain, then shook her hand. The man smiled at her. He had enjoyed inflicting the pain.

Using her other hand, Delaram slowly pulled back the sheet that covered her roommate. “You must get up. It does no good to anger—”

Delaram dropped the sheet and took a step back.

“Oh no.”

The woman stared at the wall with unblinking, unmoving, unseeing eyes. An empty, light brown bottle with a white label lay near the captive’s mouth.

“What did you do to her?” the man asked.

Delaram stared at him for a moment, uncertain she had heard right. “I did nothing to her.”

“What is in the bottle?”

“How should I know?”

“Look at it.”

The man didn’t want to touch the body. He took a step back. Delaram moved closer, leaned over the dead woman, and picked up the small plastic bottle. “Sleeping pills. The bottle is empty.” Looking closer, Delaram saw spittle and a small amount of vomit.

“And you know nothing about this?”

Delaram faced the man. “No, she was already in bed when I was brought here. She was alive then.”

“How can you know?”

“She spoke to me. Just a few words. I also heard her crying.”

“Why was she crying?”

Delaram tilted her to the side.
Idiot.
“Why do you think she was crying?”

He looked at her. “Fool. She could have died a martyr instead of a coward.”

Delaram considered slapping the man. She was destined for death, what difference would it make. Then she thought of her parents.

“Shouldn’t you tell someone?”

The man looked at the door. “Come with me.”