Warning Order (34 page)

“All he had to do was put a bullet in you, but he couldn't do it,” Warchild said, pointing the gun at her face. “Since you've been at the task force, all you've done is string him along, fuck with his mind until he can't think straight, and now look what happened,” he snarled.

Renee sank to her knees, cradling Parker's head.

Warchild mashed the pistol's barrel into her forehead and shook his head. “Real easy like, I want you to unsling that weapon and put it on the ground.”

She didn't have much of a choice, so she slowly followed his instructions, placing the rifle on the ground.

Renee's mind scrambled to figure out what had just happened. Why had Parker been protecting Warchild? None of it made any sense. She did know one thing, though: she had to keep the man talking.

“Thought you had it all figured out, didn't you?” Warchild taunted.

“How 'bout you let me up, and we can figure it out together?” she asked, looking up at him.

“It's real simple. We needed your boy Mason to find al Qatar for us, so I told Parker to get all cozy with you and pump you for intel.”

“Bullshit, you had plenty of time to find him yourself.”

“That's not the way we do it in Anvil. You should know that,” he said.

“Savage 7, Variable 1,” the radio on his shoulder went off, drawing his attention from the task at hand.

Knowing this could be the only opportunity she had, Renee snapped her right arm up toward the pistol, rolling to her left simultaneously. Warchild's hand was just on the mike when the outside of her palm knocked the pistol off target and he reflexively jerked the trigger to the rear.

The gun went off, scorching the side of her face and causing an immediate ringing in her ear. She could taste the cordite, feel the burning near her eye, as she rolled into Warchild, who slammed the butt of the pistol down onto her back. Renee felt the blow land just off the center of her spine. Trying to stay as close to Warchild as possible, she drove her shoulder up into his stomach and came awkwardly to her feet.

Warchild tried to backhand her across the face, but she slammed her fist into his groin, causing him to double over. Renee snapped her head up toward his chin and felt his mouth slam shut with a crunch of shattered teeth.

Bellowing in anger, he kicked her in the side of the leg. The blow landed like a swing of an ax, hitting the peroneal nerve with enough force that her lower leg immediately went numb. Renee staggered from the blow, and her leg buckled, allowing Warchild to deliver a kick to the side of her head. She managed to raise her arms in time to block the strike, but the impact knocked her across the room. Grinning, Warchild threw the pistol to the ground and brought his fists up in front of his face.

“I've been dreaming about this,” he said, closing the distance between them.

Renee scrambled to her feet. He struck her with a jab and danced around to her left before hitting her with a looping cross. Renee was having trouble standing as Warchild snapped a front kick to her face, forcing her to block low before he pivoted to hit her with a spinning back fist.

Ducking beneath the blow, she slammed her palm into his solar plexus and tried to sweep his leg, but Warchild was able to power out of the move and slapped her disdainfully across the top of the head with an open palm.

“C'mon, bitch, I thought you had more than that,” he jeered.

“Come get it, motherfucker,” she panted, rapidly running out of gas.

Warchild came toward her, bobbing side to side like a boxer looking for an opening. Knowing he had the size and strength advantage, Renee carefully stayed out of range, making him come to her. She knew that he wanted her to commit, and when he feinted another leg strike, she kept moving, refusing to give him a target.

“I'm over this,” he said finally, planting his feet and squared his shoulders in preparation to rush her.

Renee was out of room, caught between her attacker and the wall of the hangar. She jumped forward, snapping a kick to his head, but Warchild was already launching himself at her, his head tucked low between his shoulder blades. She braced for impact, when he suddenly tripped, his hands smacking the floor.

Emerging from the dead, Parker had grabbed Warchild's back leg.

She wasted no time diving out of the way, and as she hit the deck, Warchild cursed and scrambled to his feet. Renee tucked her body, rolled onto her shoulder, and came up with the pistol he had thrown to the ground a second before. The man stopped dead in his tracks, fear replacing the cocky look he had worn a second before.

“What the fuck are you going to do with—?”

Renee brought the front sight up and pulled the trigger before he could finish the sentence. The Glock 23 bucked in her hand, sending two rounds smashing through his chest.

Warchild dropped where he was standing, his face slamming into the ground, and his lifeless eyes staring up at her as she rushed over to Parker.

“I'm done,” he said. “Get on the net and stop the strike on Mason.”

“Was he telling the truth?” she asked, grabbing for her radio, hoping it wasn't too late to save Mason.

Parker's eyes were glassy, and his skin looked pale as he struggled to take a breath. A solitary tear ran down the side of his face as he looked up at Renee, and then, ever so slowly, he nodded his head.

T
he shells bounced heavily across the back of the truck, and one of them caught Mason's leg, knocking him onto his back. He rolled out of the way as the neat stack of high-explosive rounds rolled toward the cab of the truck in a clanging jumble.

Al Qatar grabbed onto the wooden slats of the cargo bed, clawing free of the rolling projectiles as a deep rumble erupted above the speeding truck.

Mason saw a spit of flame flash across the sky as the F-18 opened up with its 20 mm cannons, shredding the back of the truck and punching through the cab. The driver's torso exploded in a pink mist and the truck jerked hard, tumbling Mason toward the open tailgate.

His arms flailed out, trying to grab anything that would check his fall. At the last moment his fingers closed around a jagged piece of wood sticking up from the floor. Above him, the F-18's engines roared as the pilot shot overhead and climbed into the night sky. Mason knew that its next attack would be much more deadly, and while he clung on for dear life, he managed to activate the infrared beacon attached to the left shoulder of his chest rig.

He could feel his grip slipping as the wooden shard began tearing away from the floor. Desperately, Mason began searching for another handhold in the dark. As the truck sped blindly down the rutted road, he could hear the shells banging around near the cab. Without a doubt, he was living on borrowed time.

Suddenly he heard the beeping of a horn. Looking behind him, he saw the wan, yellowish glow of headlights appearing out of the cloud of dust the truck was kicking up.

A small sedan broke through the thick haze, and he could hear someone yelling at him to jump. He knew that if he couldn't get to his feet, he was going to be run over, but he didn't have a choice. Mason was just about to let go when he felt someone grab his wrist.

Looking up, he saw al Qatar with the huge knife hanging above his head.

“Now you die,” the terrorist said, bringing the blade down.

Mason let go of his handhold. He skidded toward the bumper as the knife came down, slicing into his already wounded shoulder.

The pain was blinding, and the knife passed through his flesh before hammering into the wooden floor with a thunk. The blade ground against his clavicle, pinning him to the floor like an insect on a corkboard. Al Qatar moved forward to stomp him in the face, while blood cascaded from the wound.

“Shiiit,” Mason screamed, grabbing for the knife's handle, unable to ward off the blow he knew was coming.

Five quick shots rang out from the sedan and four of them slammed into the bumper of the truck. Al Qatar grunted, staggering backward as one of the bullets smacked him in the chest.

Mason wrenched on the blade and forced himself up. He could feel his flesh tearing and the blade grinding against bone before he tore it free. Blood cascaded from the ragged hole in a torrent of crimson. He could see the F-18 coming back around, lining itself up for a bombing run.

“Jump,” Zeus yelled, his head hanging out of the window as he slowed the sedan.

In an instant, everything slowed down. Mason could clearly see the bomb leave the pylon. He reeled drunkenly forward, hearing the bomb cutting through the air. As he threw himself into the night, the last thing that crossed his mind was: “I kept my promise,” and then he was knocked out by the massive explosion.

T
he sun crept over the horizon, illuminating the battlefield in shimmering grays and reds as it cut through the pall of black smoke rising toward the heavens. Bodies lay intermingled with the charred debris left behind by the night's bombardment.

Renee watched them carry Parker's body bag out on a stretcher. She was jonesing for a cigarette and found she couldn't take her eyes off the man who'd almost gotten her killed. What Warchild had said about Anvil stuck in her brain, and she was exhausted, but she knew she couldn't leave until she found Mason and Zeus.

The medics carried Parker into the back of the Chinook and placed him among the dead. Soon the helo leapt into the sky, blowing a cloud of grit across the tarmac.

“I knew you'd make it,” Darren said, his grime-covered face twisting into a huge smile.

“You got a smoke?” she asked, looking at the barrel of his 240 Bravo, which was stained a grayish white from all the ammo he'd fired.

“Why, hell yes,” he said.

He pulled a pack of Camel Lights out of the pocket sewn into his sleeve and shook out two cigarettes before dragging a match across a green matchbook.

Renee leaned in as he lit her cigarette and took a deep drag, savoring the nicotine that rushed into her system.

A group of engineers was already working to clear the runway, while helos loaded with ammo and food looked for places to land. Scattered small-arms fire crackled in the distance, as if to tell the paratroopers that there was still a fight ahead of them.

Renee knew that once the runway was clear, more troops would arrive, and then they would move out to retake Mosul.

“You going out with us?” Darren asked.

“No, I have to find someone.”

“Well, I've gotta go. Glad you didn't die,” he said with a smirk.

“Yeah, you too.”

It took ten minutes to walk to the edge of the massive crater blown in the middle of the road that al Qatar had taken. Not much was left of the two trucks, and the pieces that hadn't been vaporized were still smoldering. The concrete was scorched black near the center of the crater, while the edges had been turned a chalky gray by the heat.

Renee knew that no one, not even Mason Kane, could have survived the blast. She felt the tears burning as they welled up. Wiping her eyes, she was about to turn away when she noticed a bloody bandage blowing across a fresh set of tire tracks.

She used her boot to pin the gauze to the ground and kneeled down to pick it up. As Renee held the bandage in her gloved hands, she followed a set of tire tracks with her eyes until they disappeared to the north. She had no way of knowing if it was Mason's blood on the gauze, but she willed herself to believe that he was still alive. Suddenly she felt an ember of hope catch inside her.

Renee heard a vehicle approaching from her rear and turned to see a Toyota Hilux bouncing toward her. The driver slammed on the brakes, and once he ground to a halt, he stuck his head out the window.

“Hey, are you Renee?”

“Yeah,” she said, making her way over to the Hilux.

“Sergeant Major Mitchell sent me to find you. Get in.”

Renee took one more look at the massive crater and walked around to the passenger's side of the pickup. She was exhausted, and a groan escaped her lips as she got in, placing the barrel of her rifle between her feet.

“What's up now?” she asked.

“Sergeant Major just said that they didn't find the body you were talking about.”

“Wait, what?” Renee demanded as he put the Hilux in gear.

“He said they checked the building, but there's no body.”

M
r. David checked his ticket as the boarding agent came over the public announcement system inviting all first-class passengers to board. Lifting his leather satchel off the ground, he was about to move toward the ticket counter when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Taking it out, he looked at the screen. A smile crept across his face.

“I've been waiting for you to call,” he said.

“Been a long week, and the cell service in Mosul was shit,” Mason replied with a laugh.

“I'm just getting on a flight. Where are you?”

“Probably better if you don't know. Things are about to get bloody.”

“Mason, there is still a lot of work left to do.”

“I'll see you around,” Mason replied.

The desk agent announced a second call for all first-class passengers, and David handed the man at the gate his ticket.

He walked down the jet bridge, still holding the phone.

“You still there?”

M
ason hung up the phone and looked down at the sling securing his arm to his chest.

He was due for another pain pill, but instead of taking one, he walked over to the window.

Outside the shitty one-room apartment the emerald water of the Mediterranean Sea flickered in flashes of silver and gold while sea gulls whirled and shrieked overhead. The salty air breathed through the open window, gently caressing his face.

“You're right, Cyprus does have nice beaches,” he said into the microphone attached to his collar.