Thin Line (38 page)

Blood poured from Joe's wounds. It mixed with the dirt and dust on the floor and formed a dark crimson pool. He clawed at the floor.

I forced myself to a kneeling position. The back of the chair dug into my upper spine. Fire raced through my nerves as the wood pushed against my damaged
vertebra. I fought against the pain, and walked on my knees. Joe had managed to get to his side and had pushed off the floor with his elbow. I shuffled
toward him, and once in range, drove my shoulder and the side of the chair into his chest and arm. The wooden frame cracked under the force. So did Joe's
ribs. He groaned in pain. I got to my knees, rose up. The back of the chair wasn't digging into me anymore. The damage to the frame allowed it to move
freely. I drove my forehead into Joe's face again. The collision between solid bone and his nose and mouth worked in my favor. His front teeth were smashed
in. Blood coated his nose, lips and chin. His eyes rolled back.

Adrenaline energized me. I kicked and straightened in an effort to split the damaged chair. It only took a few sequences before it broke. I got to my feet.
Joe writhed in pain on the ground. I kicked him in the gut and head until he stopped moving. Then I dropped to my knees, my back to the man, and searched
his pockets, where I found a set of keys. I brought them over to the sink and set them on the ledge. Fixed to the keychain was a small pocketknife. I drew
my hands to my right hip and angled my torso so that I could watch while sawing through the cord that bound my wrists. Numb hands made the job difficult,
but I succeeded.

The rope fell to the floor. I rubbed the flesh covering my hands in an attempt to restore feeling.

I grabbed the M4 and crept toward the opening. Six concrete stairs led up. Sunlight knifed through the gap in the cellar door, and dust danced in solid
beam. Then something blocked the light. I backtracked, rounded the wall. Joe lay motionless on the floor. The door opened. A single set of footsteps fell
on the stairs. Closer. Nearer. A shadow breached the divide.

I brought the M4 up, in reverse, stock in my right hand, right arm extended out. The blow was timed perfectly. I aimed at the spot where I expected
al-Sharaa's mouth to be.

Instead, I hit the ex-SEAL in the throat. His mouth twisted open, but he was unable to yell, as the strike had crushed his larynx and possibly his
esophagus, judging by his darkening face. I drew back again, delivered another strike. This one crushed his upper lip and teeth. The man was doubled over
in front of me. His blood spilled to the floor and pooled between us. I dropped the rifle, grabbed the back of the man's head, and drove my knee into his
face three times.

He fell to his knees. I twisted his limp body around. He flailed his arms up in an attempt to grab or attack, but the weak blows bounced off me. I wrapped
my hands around his chin, opposite sides, then pulled. The guy's thick neck snapped, and his lifeless body crashed to the ground.

I grabbed the rifle and headed for the door again. I peeked through and saw nothing but a carpet of dead leaves and the skeletal remains of trees rising up
from the forest floor. I pushed the door open, stuck the barrel of the rifle through, and then emerged, dividing the land in front of me into quarters.

At about seven feet high, the structure provided me cover. I followed it to the right, in the direction of Reese McSweeney. The wind whipped around the
corner, negating the effects of the sun. My body, uncovered and damp with sweat and water, started to shake. I had no control over it. I clenched my arms,
legs, chest, abdomen, all several times. The contractions warmed my muscles, and the trembling momentarily stopped.

I fought off the instinct that told me to run. I refused to leave McSweeney behind with al-Sharaa. And who knew if someone else would show up later?

The shovel made a slapping sound and penetrated the earth. Dirt hit the ground like fat raindrops. I inched toward the corner, the M4's muzzle below my
chin. Reese's head poked out of the dirt pit. The shovel swung up, dove down. She worked fast, as though she could tunnel away.

I didn't see al-Sharaa. But I caught a whiff of a menthol cigarette. He must've been leaning back against the cellar wall. I backed up and took a deep
breath to clear my head. I had one shot, one chance, to end this. If I missed, then Reese would die.

And so would I.

DISCARDED SMOKE SATURATED the wind. Leaves lifted up and blew past, circling one another. Reese's shovel continued its cycle of rising and falling. She
grunted with every pass. But she was alive, and my job was to keep her that way.

I felt like my feet had sunk six inches, and the ground held me in place. My body, breaking down. There wouldn't be a better time than now to do this.
Things would only get worse, in fact. Every second I was exposed to the elements, I reduced my chances of making that shot a successful one. But I remained
there. Frozen.

And then al-Sharaa spoke.

"That's deep enough. Kneel down."

The ex-SEAL must've been coming to get me, and al-Sharaa was expecting us back.

Reese McSweeney choked and sobbed, and then composed herself enough to plead for her life. It wouldn't do any good. Al-Sharaa was going to behead her, or
watch over her until Joe came out to finish the job, whether Reese knelt or not. She'd buy herself, and me, a little time if she refused to yield.

"Get down," he yelled.

Defiant 'til the end, Reese screamed back at him, unleashing the primal sound of a warrior. The shovel thumped against the ground. The blade clanked
against the earthen wall.

Al-Sharaa laughed and told her goodnight.

I stepped out from cover and sighted al-Sharaa. It was something I should have done four years ago. He must've seen me in his peripheral vision. His head
turned, body followed, gun came around last. I squeezed the trigger and put a round dead center in his chest. It stopped him cold. I fired again. Hit close
to the same spot. The man dropped to his knees. I took a few steps forward, keeping the M4 trained on the stain spreading across his chest. I lifted the
barrel a touch and depressed the trigger one more time. The final round went clear through his head. The sound of the shots echoed throughout the woods,
sending dozens of resting crows into the air, the mass of them like a black, swarming cloud.

Reese screamed my name. She clawed wildly at the dirt ledge. The action only served to bring more of it down upon her. She slipped and fell. I hurried over
and found her on her back at the bottom of the pit. She clenched her eyes while driving her elbows into the ground, lifting her chest in the air.

"Just relax," I said. "It takes a second for the wind to come back."

She pulled in swallows of air before exhaling forcefully. Slowly, she sat up, got to her knees, then her feet. I shifted the M4 to my left hand, reached
down with my right. Reese grabbed hold with both of hers. Still weakened from the waterboarding, I stepped back, using my weight instead of muscle to pull
her out.

I felt one hand let go completely, and the other unfurl from my grip. Her stare darted past me. Her eyes widened.

"Look out," she shouted.

I glanced back. Joe staggered toward me, aiming a pistol at my head. I released Reese from my grip and started to turn, tossing the M4 in the air while
bringing my right arm up to catch it. But unless Joe was blind, I didn't stand a chance.

Simultaneously my eyes shut and muscles locked, bracing for impact. The sound of his sidearm discharging ripped through the air. The M4's stock grazed my
right hand, and my fingers closed in around it. My abdomen burned. I couldn't tell exactly where the bullet hit, or what damage it had done. I unleashed a
primal scream of my own, intent on sending a surge of adrenaline through my body that would allow me to ignore the wound and bullet that had torn through
my flesh. I didn't need to put it off long, just enough to send a deadly shot in Joe's direction.

I opened my eyes and located Joe as I fell to the ground. He fired another round. It slammed into the dirt near me. He continued toward me. One foot up,
the other dragging. I brought the M4 to my shoulder, managed to sight Joe, and then squeezed the trigger. But nothing happened. It had jammed. A bloody,
toothless smile formed on Joe's face. Blood spilled out over his chin and onto his chest. He stopped and extended his arm. The man took his time,
presumably because he wanted this to be the final shot before he moved on and ended Reese's life.

Summoning every last ounce of energy I had, I reversed the M4, wrapping both hands around the scalding muzzle. The flesh coating my fingers melted. I swung
the stock at Joe's knees. I couldn't get there, though. White-hot pain seared through my abdominal wall with every movement I made. I refused to give up,
to lie there and be put out of my misery like a dying deer. I dropped the M4 and reached into the waistband of my underwear, where I'd stored Joe's knife
and keys. I couldn't get the blade to retract from the knife's housing.

Another loud crack was followed by pain radiating throughout my arm. The bullet had hit midway up my forearm, shattering the bones. I released the knife
from my grasp.

Joe stood a few feet away now, laughing.

I lay there, on my back, trying to keep from dying. My right foot hovered in the air over the pit Reese McSweeney had dug. They almost got me in it. I
doubted Joe was going to try and push me in before delivering the fatal shot.

He sent a wad of saliva and blood and pus in my direction. I closed my eyes and didn't see where it hit. The pain in my arm and abdomen made it impossible
to feel anything else. I didn't notice the cold, damp ground under my exposed back and legs. Couldn't feel the breeze as it whipped over and past me. Never
noticed the leaves as they danced across my body.

But finally, I heard the shot that ended a life.

And then I heard Reese calling out. And following that, a man shouted back.

"Jack," they both said, one after another.

Reese's voice remained trapped in a dirt pit. But the man's voice got closer with each successive word.

I opened my eyes. Joe's body lay a few feet away. His eyes were stuck open. He'd been covered in blood to begin with, so it was impossible to tell where
the fatal bullet had landed. One of a couple places. And it didn't matter where, only that it had happened.

"Jesus, Jack." Brett hovered over me.

I licked my lips and forced a swallow. "Get Reese out of the ground."

"We're on it."

I tried to look over, but pain prevented it. Reese called my name. It was soft, gentle. I looked up. She stood next to Brett. They leaned against each other
for support. In the filtered light, they looked nothing alike. He said something to one of the agents that had accompanied him, and the man led her away.
Two others knelt by my side and assessed me. Meanwhile, I managed to ask Brett a question.

"How'd you know?"

"They were keeping me nearby. I guess they own all this land. For whatever reason, they didn't kill me. I think al-Sharaa wanted to bring me back to Syria
or Iraq, do the whole thing on film as punishment for my role in forcing them out of Paris. The man they left watching over me didn't lock the room on his
way out. He paid for it, too."

"That's some pretty amazing luck."

Brett smiled. "Seems I'm full of it this week."

"What about those guys?"

"Used the dead man's phone. Led them to me."

One of the men pulled on my broken arm. A jolt of pain ran up through my shoulder. After it subsided, I said, "You were watching the whole time?"

"We just followed the sounds."

"Bear," I said. "He was hurt. Another contact of mine, too."

He nodded, said nothing.

"What've you heard?"

Brett looked away for a second. His jacket rippled in the breeze. He glanced at me, shook his head. "Sorry, Jack. Not good news."

I closed my eyes and let my head fall back.

And the wind engulfed my body.

THE FIRST CONSCIOUS thought that streamed through my mind was, "Where the hell am I?"

The steady beeping that had been there while I arose from a deep, sedated sleep increased in pace. I had a faint recollection of the events that had
transpired, but no idea when they'd occurred. The images that flashed in my mind's eye caused sensations of panic. The beeping sped up. A steady alarm rang
out.

A flurry of activity occurred around me. Two women and one man, dressed in scrubs, silenced the machine and took readings manually. One touched my abdomen.
I tried to lift my head, but a device kept me from doing so. With good reason, too. The half-inch I managed on my own hurt like hell.

The man left. One of the women followed. The one in pink remained behind. She explained I was in the hospital, recovering from wounds suffered and three
surgeries to repair a broken arm, lacerated kidney, and fractured vertebra. They had kept me heavily sedated for five days with a combination of anesthesia
and narcotics. Pain medication.

At first, I had no memory of the bullet that had penetrated my abdominal wall. Nor the one that shattered the bones of my forearm. It wasn't until a doctor
by the name of Jovanovich came by and explained my surgeries that the images played out in their entirety.

"McSweeney," I attempted to say. My throat was drier than the desert surrounding Dubai.

The nurse in pink scrubs placed an ice chip in my mouth. Cold water laced my parched throat. I might as well have swallowed fire. Eventually, the burning
subsided enough that I tried again.

"Reese McSweeney," I said. "How is she?"

Dr. Jovanovich exchanged a glance with the nurse. His face showed no sign of recollection.

The nurse spoke up. "We don't have a patient by that name. However, we were told to contact a Mr. Taylor the moment you came to, and I'm going to do that
now. Perhaps he can answer your question?"

Forgetting about the device around my neck, I tried unsuccessfully to nod.