Clear by Fire (37 page)

The American saw her go to the ground and ran toward the rear of the mangled convoy. His heart beat heavily as he broke free from Zeus and ran over to her.

The Hezbollah commander, Abdul, was firing over the bed of the truck. Mason dropped to Renee’s side.

“They are behind us,” she yelled, but he ignored her and checked to make sure she was okay.

“You need to stay down,” he yelled.

“We have to get out of here,” she said as another salvo thumped into the truck they were using as cover.

Mason conducted a mag change, and Zeus took a position next to Abdul. The Libyan fired off four shots before his rifle went down. Mason moved to cover his friend.

“Stay down,” he yelled at Renee as he looked to see who was shooting at them.

He saw a bullet-riddled van against the side of the building, and a car that was facing north down the road. A man was firing at them from the trunk of the sedan. Mason pointed the reticle over the man’s chest and fired. When he shifted to the next target, his finger froze on the trigger. Mason immediately recognized the bearded face that appeared through the optic. It was his old teammate Jones.

•  •  •

Jones ran back to the sedan in disbelief. He couldn’t believe that Barnes had just murdered one of his own men, and it was only his deep-rooted discipline that enabled him to follow orders. Behind him, Villa stared open-mouthed at his gore-soaked hands and at Hoyt’s lifeless body.

“What the hell just happened?” Scottie yelled at him as he fumbled with the door.

His hand paused on the latch. Villa was just turning his head to answer when Scottie lurched backward before tumbling to the ground.

Jones turned to look for the shooter when a round shattered the side-view mirror near his head. He hit the ground and low-crawled around the car, where he found Scottie sprawled against the door with a gaping head wound. Blood and brain matter were sprayed against the side of the car. Jones stared at the large exit wound peeking out of his hair.

“Scottie’s down. We need to move,” he yelled over the radio.

“Yeah, no shit,” Boz replied.

“Break contact, all elements break contact,” Harden yelled, getting to his feet and pushing Boz toward the car.

•  •  •

Mason lowered his rifle and flipped the selector on safe. The man he’d just shot in the head was down, and his mind was racing over the problem before him. The van lay less than ten meters in front
of him, its front end buried in the thin concrete of the building. He knew he would have to break cover to check it out. He wanted Zeus to back him up.

“Zeus, its Barnes’s van,” he said, pointing past the pickup.

“What?”

The rifle fire made it impossible to communicate, and as they were yelling back and forth, Renee moved to Zeus’s side, eager to see what was going on.

“Tell her to stay back,” he yelled, pointing at the woman and raising a closed fist.

Zeus glanced over his shoulder just as Renee crept past him, moving parallel along the east side of the pockmarked building.

“Shit,” Mason yelled as she moved into the open space to his right.

His rifle at the ready, Mason sprinted toward the van, hoping to get there before anyone saw Renee. The front sight of his AK bobbed up and down, in time with his steps. He swept the rifle to the left and right, searching for threats as he moved.

Villa had moved back up the driver’s-side door of the van to lay down suppressive fire so that the rest of his team could break contact. Mason could only see the top of his head through the shattered window, but he was able to see the barrel of his rifle snap toward Renee as he acquired his target.

Mason fired four shots through the door before ducking around the front of the van. Zeus jogged to catch up with Renee. Mason saw him grab the back of her shirt and pull her behind him. The American tried to get his attention and signaled for him to take her back to safety, but the Libyan had just pulled a frag from his kit. After pulling the pin, he tossed it to the north.

Mason didn’t wait for the explosion. He moved around the front of the van and squeezed between the front end and the crumbling concrete wall. The van’s bumper pressed into his thighs as he forced his body through the narrow space and looked through the open cargo door.

Clearing as much of the inside as he could, he stepped up into the
van. It was empty. His boots stuck to the coagulated blood covering the floor. He ducked low to clear the ceiling, and his boots made a ripping sound as they tore free of the tacky blood.

Two large artillery shells were fastened to a wooden pallet, which was ratchet-strapped to the floor. His heart skittered as he took in the wires and blasting caps drilled into the unstable ordinance. This was not a good place to be.

He had to make sure Villa was down before worrying about the bomb. He slipped his rifle through the space between the two front seats and wedged himself into the cab of the van. The van’s windshield was riddled with bullet holes and was impossible to see out of. Bright arterial blood stained the center console, and he could see more blood on the inside of the driver’s-side door.

Taking a knee on the driver’s seat, he leaned out and saw Villa lying on his back with his hand clutching his throat. Dark blood seeped through the fingers, and his tan face was ashen. Mason raised the rifle with his right hand while holding himself steady with his left and fired a round through the man’s forehead. Before Villa’s head hit the ground, the American was pulling himself back into the vehicle.

The improvised bomb was expertly crafted from two 105-millimeter artillery shells daisy-chained together and attached to a complex detonator. On top of the shells was a silver tube, which had a small gouge cut in the casing. Mason could see that an errant round had caused the gouge. There was no way to know if the container was still intact or if it was leaking.

He slipped the AK’s sling over his head and swung the rifle out of his way so he could get to his knife. Flipping the blade out of the handle, Mason cut the two black zip ties securing the biologic to the bomb and stowed his knife.

Crouched over in the van’s cramped interior, he held the metallic casing up to the dim light filtering into the cargo compartment. It was lighter than he’d expected, but he knew it could easily kill everyone in the area.

Gunfire erupted to the rear of the van, causing him to shove the metal cylinder into his pocket and get back into the fight.

Flinging open the rear door of the van, he saw Boz standing in the middle of the street firing at Renee’s last position. Mason’s left hand found the wooden forearm of the AK and raised it up as his right hand found the trigger. The rifle wasn’t even to his shoulder when he fired the first round, which was low.

The 7.62-millimeter bullet skipped off the ground and grazed Boz’s foot. He yelled in pain and swung the barrel of his rifle at the new threat. As he turned, Mason fired again, hitting the man in the side of the chest and through the jaw.

Blood misted into the air as Mason stepped out of the van, his rifle following the wounded man downward as he fell. He kept firing until Boz had hit the ground.

Jones was firing at Zeus and Renee from the side of the car. Mason snapped off two shots before his rifle jammed. The bullets went wide, and he was trying to get to cover when a round caught him square in the chest.

Mason stumbled to the west side of the van. More bullets peppered the concrete wall as he ducked behind cover. Chips of brick and mortar peppered his face, sending dust into his eyes. Still, he ripped the magazine from the rifle and pulled on the charging handle to clear the jam. He could feel the blood running down his side as the mangled casing was flung out. He struggled to catch his breath. Blocking out the pain, he inserted a fresh magazine and chambered another round.

Mason saw Jones pop up near the trunk of the sedan and fire two short bursts from his rifle. He was raising his AK-47 to take a shot when he caught movement across the street. Two men were running for the entrance to the alley. As the last man turned to call Jones to him, Mason recognized Harden.

Mason fired at Jones, knocking him to the ground, and then swung his rifle toward the alley. Harden stopped and propped his
HK against the concrete corner. The scene seemed to unfold in slow motion to Mason as his finger closed around the trigger. Harden fired two shots. Mason pulled the trigger hurriedly to the rear, rushing the shot.

He thought he saw a flash of blood, but the man was gone in an instant. The American had just started across the street in pursuit when he heard someone yelling his name.

Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw Abdul yelling into a radio. Renee’s knee was pressed on Zeus’s chest. Mason felt his blood run cold as he stopped in the middle of the street. He let his rifle fall to his chest as he stood in the open, staring at the Libyan’s blood-covered shirt.

“Oh God, no,” he heard himself mutter.

Forcing his legs to move, Mason ran over to the Libyan and dropped to his knees. Zeus had been hit near the shoulder and blood poured out of the wound.

“Zeus . . . Jesus . . . c’mon, you’re fine,” Mason stuttered as he looked down at his friend’s ashen face. His breathing was shallow and ragged, and Mason prayed the bullet hadn’t hit something vital. “Get a fucking truck over here,” he yelled at the Hezbollah commander, who was still screaming into the radio.

“I can get up, I’m fine,” Zeus said weakly, trying to get his feet under him.

Mason felt his heart ripping in his chest as he began plugging the hole with gauze in an effort to stop the bleeding.

“Fuck . . . Zeus, I’m so sorry,” he said, tears welling in his eyes.

Abdul appeared with a pickup, and Mason yelled for someone to help him lift his friend into the back. Renee helped pull the Libyan to his feet and ignored his feeble groans as they laid him gently in the backseat of the truck.

“We have to go,” Renee was yelling, but Mason wasn’t listening. He looked down at the last friend he had in the world and then walked toward the sedan.

“Mason, the bomb,” Renee yelled, but Mason didn’t care.

He heard the truck behind him as he moved in an arc across the street until he could see Jones, lying on his side. Mason snatched the Glock off his hip, and his old teammate scrambled for his rifle.

“Look at me, motherfucker,” Mason yelled as he came around the car, the Glock up and firing. The round hit the man in the back of his leg. Jones went down but continued to crawl to his weapon.

Mason fired again, hitting the man in the ass.

“You want to die running away like a bitch?” he yelled.

Jones flipped himself over and stared up at Mason.

“Was he worth it?” Mason asked before shooting the man twice in the head. Holstering the pistol, he reached into the car and grabbed the black laptop and an assault pack that lay on the floor. There was a map lying in the passenger seat. He snatched it up, then rushed back to Zeus and Renee and jumped into the backseat of the truck.

They were jammed tight in the backseat, and Renee was putting pressure on Zeus’s wound as the Libyan’s head lolled from side to side. The American yelled at Abdul to get them out of the blast area and then began searching for something to treat his friend’s wounds. The backseat of the truck was littered with trash and dirt-caked wrappers but not a single medical supply.

Unzipping the assault pack, he dumped it on the floorboard at his feet. A radio, food, batteries, and a small trauma kit fell out. The American bent forward to scoop up the olive-drab kit. He took a penlike auto-injector of morphine out of the jumbled pile of supplies and pulled the plastic cap off the front. He placed it on the Libyan’s leg and depressed the button on the end. A heavy-duty spring fired the needle into Zeus’s leg with a snap and injected the powerful pain med into his bloodstream.

Mason had to almost climb onto his friend to inspect the wound. The bullet had gone clean through, missing his vitals, but the wound was still bleeding heavily and his clavicle was broken. Mason checked
to make sure both lungs were intact, and then, unrolling the gauze, he began packing the wound as gently as he could while Zeus grunted and squirmed away. Suddenly there was a large explosion behind them.

He could hear the men in the back of the truck yelling. He looked out the back window to see the extent of the damage. The truck was about four hundred meters from the blast, but the men were still being pelted with debris and shrapnel. A dark brown cloud rose above the buildings and expanded outward from the overpressure. Orange flames were visible along the outer edge of the huge crater. Thick black smoke billowed up into the dust cloud as a deep rumble tore through the city block.

Abdul was chattering angrily on the phone, while Mason took a pressure bandage and wrapped it tightly over the gauze.

“What’s he saying?” he asked.

“He’s on the phone,” Zeus slurred.

“Well, you’re good as new,” Mason replied as he retook his seat.

“I can’t believe I got shot.” The Libyan’s head lolled to the side. He looked at Mason with dilated pupils, slightly slurring his words. The morphine had hit him quickly, leaving him pain-free.

“Hey, welcome to the club,” Mason joked.

“They are all dead,” he said seriously.

“I know.”

“So many more will die now.”

The narcotic had put him in a somber mood, and a single tear collected at the corner of his eye. Mason placed his hand on his friend’s head and tried to block out the pain welling up inside him.

“No, my friend, they won’t,” Mason said.

He’d totally forgotten about the metal cylinder in his pocket. Frantically he pulled it out of his pocket.

“Oh shit,” he said as he pulled it out and began looking for a bottle of water. He found one in the almost empty assault pack and
quickly unscrewed the top. Ignoring Zeus’s questioning look, he slowly poured the water over the gouge in the casing and watched for any bubbles. After repeating the process two more times without seeing any signs of leaks, he let out a huge sigh and smiled at his friend.

“How did you . . . ?” Renee asked, a wave of relief flooding her face.