Warning Order (33 page)

“We wait for the emir,” the man replied.

“We do not have time. We will never make it to the dam if we don't leave now.”

“We wait,” the man shouted, throwing his cigarette to the ground and shouldering his rifle.

“What do you have?” Zeus hissed behind Mason.

“A couple of VBIEDs. I think they are going to try and blow the dam.”

“Fuck,” the Libyan cursed.

Both men knew that if that happened, a tidal wave of water would be set free to crash over Mosul and drown everyone from here to Baghdad.

“Do you have a shot?”

Mason stepped forward, raising his rifle, and when he did his foot clipped a piece of metal. The object clanged off the ground, reverberating in the tight space. Instantly, the man with the AK leveled his rifle and sent a burst toward Mason.

“Emir, hurry,” the driver yelled.

Mason rushed the shot, having to duck for cover as he pulled the trigger.

Out of the darkness a man appeared—heading for the lead truck.

“It's him,” Zeus yelled as Mason sent two rounds into the man's chest.

He tried sweeping his rifle toward al Qatar but was engaged by another fighter. Zeus grabbed him by the back of his kit, yanking him behind a stack of crates.

Al Qatar yelled to the driver, “Go.”

“Get off me,” Mason growled, ripping free from the Libyan's grip. As he pressed the HK against his shoulder, the first truck lurched away, temporarily obscuring al Qatar, who ran around the second vehicle and disappeared from sight. Mason flashed the laser over the cab of the truck and was about to fire through the cab when a muzzle blast erupted from his left.

The round slammed into his NODs, blasting them off of his helmet and wrenching his head violently to the side. By instinct, he threw himself backward just as he heard the
crack
of a high-powered rifle.

A second round slammed into the crate next to his head, a millisecond after he'd dropped behind cover. Mason felt a burning sensation tear into the side of his face and blood pouring down his cheek.

He had been a sniper long enough to recognize the sound of an American rifle, and Mason swore as the driver slammed the second truck into gear.

“Cover me,” he yelled.

“Mason, wait,” Zeus screamed.

Kane shot from cover, his vision obscured by the blood in his eyes. He held down the trigger as he ran, swinging up the HK despite the pain shooting down his left arm. The rifle bucked violently as it hammered through the full magazine. Even though it could have been friendly fire, in his mind there wasn't a shadow of a doubt about who was trying to kill him.

It had to be Warchild.

He felt the bolt lock to the rear as the mag ran dry. He released his grip on the rifle and leapt up for the metal handhold welded to the bed of the truck.

The driver slammed his foot on the gas just as Mason grabbed on. His arm was jarred as the truck jolted forward. He scrambled to get a better grip. His feet bounced off the ground, torquing his back while he held on for dear life.

The HK beat against the small of his back, and he could feel his grip slipping. To compensate, his right hand shot out for the bumper. Mason grabbed on with his left hand, and the pain from his shoulder crashed over him with a vengeance.

He gritted his teeth, forcing the pain away. To add to his difficulties, he was choking on the hot exhaust spraying over his face.

Suddenly the comms came alive, and he heard a pilot check on station.

“Variable 1 and 2 inbound,” the pilot said.

With powerful handholds, Mason inched his way into the back of the cargo truck. Sweat and blood poured down his face. He grabbed onto a cargo strap, stretched tight over a row of artillery shells, and hauled himself all the way into the bed.

He lay panting on the wooden floor, fighting to catch his breath.

“Fuck, I'm getting to old for this,” he moaned

He ripped the empty mag from the HK and pounded a fresh one into the rifle. Mason was just dropping the bolt when something hit him hard on the top of the helmet.

R
enee, running across the tarmac with the rest of the paratroopers, took a knee behind a burned-out hulk that had once been a Humvee. Muzzle flashes were winking off to her right, and she brought up her rifle, searching for a target.

A man ran out into the open with an RPG, and she centered the reticle on his head and pulled the trigger. The round broke clean and blasted through his skull, sending him sprawling on the ground. Another jihadist was maneuvering to her left, and she transitioned smoothly onto his chest and dropped him with a double tap.

Beside her, the 240 gunner slapped a fresh belt into the machine gun. He followed Renee as she crept around what was left of the Humvee. One of the paratroopers nearby dropped to a knee and shouldered an AT-4.

“Back blast area clear,” he yelled before firing the rocket into a sandbagged position fifteen feet in front of him.

The rocket shot from the launcher and detonated before he even had time to throw the empty AT-4 to the ground.

“Fuck yeah,” someone yelled as another 240 opened up on the flank.

“On line. On line,” the team leader commanded as more paratroopers flooded onto the tarmac, looking for cover while a squad laid down a base of fire.

“What's your name, kid?” she asked the gunner who was stuck to her hip.

“Darren,” he replied.

“Okay, Darren, you need to get that gun up.”

“Just looking for a spot,” he said with a grin.

Renee dropped the mag from her rifle, quickly slammed a fresh one into the mag well, and scanned the area for any threats. She saw a low concrete wall next to a group of cars, a few meters to their right, and motioned for Darren to follow.

A fighter suddenly emerged from a spider hole dug in the dirt ahead of her, but Renee was on the trigger without ever breaking stride. She could see similar positions in a neat row just ahead, and she swung out wide to cover them as they moved.

She held up her hand, telling Darren to stop. Ripping a frag off her kit, she lobbed it into the next hole. The jihadist hiding inside yelped in surprise, but the grenade drowned it out with a deafening explosion.

They reached the wall without further incident. Darren laid his gun across the top and unleashed a long burst into the enemy's flank.

Renee saw a hint of movement to her right and whirled to engage. Her finger was on the trigger when she recognized Zeus running for one of the sedans.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, a feeling of relief washing over her.

“Mason went after al Qatar,” he huffed, throwing his rifle into the first car he came to.

“Why didn't you go with him?”

“There's a fucking sniper up there,” he said, pointing to the building from which he had just taken fire.

“That's Warchild's position,” she said in disbelief.

“Yeah, I fucking figured that out. Are you coming or not?”

Warchild's voice came over Zeus's radio. “Variable 1, this is Savage 7. I have two vehicles moving north and request immediate intercept.”

“What channel is that?” she demanded.

“Air to ground, why?”

“Because I think Warchild is about to call an airstrike on Mason.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Just go. I've got this,” she ordered before sprinting off toward the building.

She quickly found the door and yanked it open. In short order, Renee located a flight of metal stairs leading up to the second floor. She placed her foot on the first step carefully and made her way slowly to the top.

“Roger that, Variable, they are headed north.” Warchild's voice echoed above her.

“Stand the fuck down,” Renee yelled, coming up on the landing where the two men stood, staring out the opening.

“Well, look who it is,” Warchild sneered, ignoring the rifle pointed at him.

“Roger that, Savage 7, stand by while we locate,” the radio blared.

“Get out of the way, Parker,” she said, raising her rifle.

“I can't do that,” he said. “If they blow the dam, we're all dead.”

“Parker, get out of the way,” she repeated, edging forward to get a better angle on Warchild.

“Shoot the bitch,” Warchild said, checking the GPS unit strapped to his wrist.

“Renee, this is way above your pay grade. Just turn around and go,” Parker said, moving in front of Warchild to block her shot.

“Why are you protecting him?” she asked, lowering the rifle as Parker's hand slid slowly to his pistol.

“We have orders, Renee, and I can't let you get in the way. Not this time.”

“For chrissake,” Warchild said irritably, “can you just kill her so we can get on with this?”

“Dude, chill the fuck out,” Parker said, his pistol creeping out of its holster, while Renee kept her rifle trained on Warchild.

“No,
you
chill out. I don't know why you are so hung up on this bitch, but it's time for you to choose,” he said, shoving Parker forward.

Renee reacted without thinking, and as Parker's pistol flashed up, she fired two quick shots into the center of his chest.

“Damn, you shot him,” Warchild exclaimed. “I didn't think you had it in you.”

“Oh, no,” Renee said, Parker's eyes opening wide with surprise. His mouth formed a small O as he fell to his knees. She dropped her rifle, reaching out for him. At the same time, Warchild raised his pistol and pointed it at her face.

“Guess you chose for him.”

M
ason heard Warchild scramble the jets to his location at the same moment an unknown assailant grabbed his helmet and began twisting. He aimed the HK over his head and managed to pull the trigger before it was kicked out of his hand.

The rifle went off with a
tsk
, and he heard glass shatter. Without warning, the truck lurched suddenly to the right. He felt the sling slip over his head and the rifle clatter away. Luckily, the grip on his helmet relaxed for a brief second.

Mason scrambled onto his stomach and the fighter kicked at his face, forcing him to roll out of the way. His shoulder slammed hard into the shells stacked along the middle of the cargo bed. The man stepped forward, trying to stomp on his face.

The American jerked his head away as the man's boots slammed into his shoulder. Lashing out, Mason kicked the man in the back of the knee, knocking him flat on his back.

As Mason dove for him, a shot rang out from the cab of the truck. He slammed his forearm into the fighter's throat before bringing the rim of his helmet down on the man's nose with a sickening crunch. A spray of blood hit him in the chin, and the man tried to buck him off with his hips.

Al Qatar yelled at the driver, and the truck swayed violently back and forth on the road. The shells rattled against one another as they shifted beneath the ratchet straps. It was obvious that he was trying to throw Mason out of the truck and, to make it worse, he heard his rifle clatter toward the edge of the bed.

An AK punched the remaining glass out of the rear window and a burst of fire swept across the bed of the cargo truck. Mason had his back to the cab when a round crashed into the back of his kit, knocking the breath out of his lungs.

Trying to take advantage, the fighter began scratching at his eyes. Mason slammed his elbow down on the man's already bloody face, as splinters showered over him. One of the rounds from al Qatar snapped the fighter's head to the side, sending a rush of gore over the front of Mason's battle shirt. He knew the man was dead, and he lifted himself off the body as al Qatar inched into the back of the truck.

“Hold it steady,” the terrorist yelled at the driver while firing toward the shells that Mason was hiding behind.

Mason ducked down as one of the rounds sparked off the body of the massive shells.

“You're going kill us both,” the driver yelled, looking frantically over his shoulder.

“Be quiet,” al Qatar snapped. Raising the Kalashnikov, he lined up the shot and pulled the trigger.

The sturdy AK clicked on the empty chamber, and the terrorist threw it away before yanking a large knife from his belt.

“Savage 7, be advised we are going in hot,” Mason heard the pilot say while getting to his feet.

He tried to key the radio, but suddenly al Qatar was lunging at him with a wicked-looking knife.

Mason's foot got caught on the ratchet strap right when the terrorist swung the blade at his neck. He saw the blade sweeping toward his neck, and when he tried to move back, he fell. The blade cut through the commo wire, and Mason found himself flat on his back.

Mason could see the hate in the man's eyes as al Qatar brought the blade back down in a wide arc. Mason barely rolled free of the razor-sharp blade, which whizzed past him before cutting into the ratchet strap.

The artillery shells shifted and the tension holding them securely to the floor was released slightly, and the strap began to snap from the pressure.

Yanking his own knife from its scabbard, Mason got to his feet and stepped forward, his left arm moving to block al Qatar's next blow. The outside of his forearm slammed into the man's wrist, and when he tried to bring the blade down for a backhanded strike, Mason stepped inside his guard and sliceed his blade across the man's stomach.

Al Qatar yelped in pain, and Mason jabbed the blade toward his ribs, feeling the point hit bone before bouncing off.

The terrorist bellowed in agony, and Mason pressed the attack. He used his elbow to smash al Qatar in the face. The jihadist stumbled backward before Mason's violent onslaught, and the American was just about to drive the blade into al Qatar's skull when the ratchet strap behind him snapped, sending the heavy shells spilling across the floor.

O
h, no,” Renee yelled, dropping her rifle as Parker fell face first onto the ground.