Payback (3 page)

“You
good?”

“Yeah.”
He stood, sucking in a deep breath as he stretched out his chest. “Ribs are
tender, not broken.”

“Good.
Sort yourself out.” He pointed to Macaulay. “Get the body out of sight, check
for intel.”

Casey quickly
patted the man down, shaking his head. “Nada. Just a couple of mags and a
cellphone.”

“Okay,
take the cellphone and the weapon.”

Mickey
nodded, shoving the weapon in a loop on his utility belt then dragged the body
in behind a parked car, a bloody streak revealing the hiding spot should anyone
really be looking. Atlas tossed his own man into the back of a pickup truck as
if it were a sack of potatoes.

I’d
love to see him arm wrestle Stallone.

One of Red’s
favorite movies when he was a kid was Over the Top. He didn’t know why, it
wasn’t that great a movie. But something about arm wrestling just appealed to
him and he had exercised his right arm like a madman, challenging everyone he
could, even mimicking the turn of the ball cap, a switch that transformed him
from ordinary, skinny teenager, to full blown, musclebound action hero.

He
rarely won.

It
wasn’t until his late teens that he had his growth spurt, put on six inches in
height and forty pounds of body weight and decided the Army was the life for
him.

He had
thought he was strong until he met Atlas.

The man
redefined the word.

Atlas
jogged back to their position, smacking Wings on the chest with the back of his
hand. Wings winced, knocked back a step. “You good?”

Wings
frowned. “I was until you hit me, Thor.”

Atlas
grinned. “Sorry, sometimes I forget I shouldn’t bring the hammer down so hard.”

“Ha ha.”
Wings shrugged his shoulders up and down a few times then back and forth,
loosening himself up. “I’m good, let’s get back in the game.”

Red
smiled, activating his comm, the relief he felt that his man was unharmed
hidden from the others.

I’m
not losing anyone on my watch.

Dawson rushed down the stairs as quietly as their soft soled boots
would take them. So far they hadn’t encountered any resistance, but Red’s
report had him concerned and his jaw was clenched tight as he held his tongue,
waiting for Red to report further, his ‘standby’ request suggesting the
situation wasn’t completely locked down.

They
hadn’t heard the shots, which he hoped meant the hostiles hadn’t either, but
they had to be expecting them since they had lost contact with their lookouts
on the roof.

Which
meant time was of the essence.

And
delays in the parking garage could cost lives.

“Bravo
Zero-One, Bravo Zero-Two. Two hostiles eliminated, Bravo One-Two tenderized but
operational. We’re in position, over.”

Dawson
exchanged grins with Spock who was just behind him as they continued their
descent, coming to a stop at the door leading into the foyer. “Roger that,
Bravo Zero-Two, we’re in position. Control, Bravo Zero-One. All teams in
position. Status, over?”

“Bravo
Zero-One, Control. Windows all clear. Heat signatures above ground show nobody
outside of the ballroom except for your team. We have no intel on the parking
garage except for what Bravo Zero-Two reported, over.”

“Roger
that, Control. Bravo Zero-Two, proceed in three, two, one, execute!”

Spock
yanked the door open and Dawson stepped through, immediately scanning left to
right as Jagger covered right to left. “Clear!” he whispered, Jagger doing the
same, the four of them breaking left and right, out of sight of the
double-doors to the conference room just ahead. Dawson crossed the marble floor
quickly, coming to rest at the far wall where the entrance to the room stood, Spock
beside him, Jagger and Mickey on the opposite side.

They
slowly made their way to the door, hugging the wall, and when in position he
activated his comm. “Bravo Zero-Two, we’re in position, over.”

“Bravo
Zero-Two in position, over.”

Dawson
pulled a scope from one of the pockets on his vest and extended the telescoping
stalk, activating the camera on the other end. The transmission was picked up
by the tablet Spock was now holding, the video beamed back to Control. Dawson
glanced between the screen and the end of the camera, making sure he didn’t tap
the glass in the door.

“I’m
seeing six hostiles,” reported Spock. “Two in front of this door, two at the
front of the room with the Secretary, two walking among the hostages.” He
paused. “Shit!”

“What is
it?” asked Dawson, looking at the screen.

“They’ve
got half the hostages on their feet.”

Dawson
cursed. “Okay, did everyone copy that? Four hotel-tangoes in the clear, two
among the hostages. Bravo Zero-Two, your team take the two by our door and the
two on the stage—you should have clean shots from your entry point. We’ll take
the two in the crowd. Watch for additional hostiles pretending to be civilians.
When in doubt, wing them. We’ll sort out the lawsuits later. Acknowledged?”

The
confirmations came through the comm and Dawson took one final look at the
screen as Jagger and Spock crouched down, gripping the handles of both doors.
“Teams One and Two, proceed in three, two, one, execute!”

He did an
additional three count then nodded, Wings and Spock pulling open the doors as
he and Jagger advanced. Across the room he could already see Red’s team
entering, the two hostiles by his door down, the two on the stage collapsing as
he watched. He got a bead on the first hostile on the left, spinning toward the
stage in shock. “Federal authorities, everyone on the ground!”

Screams
erupted as those standing among the hostage takers realized it was do or die
time, most not reacting fast enough. He squeezed his trigger, taking out the
first hostile as he heard Jagger’s weapon fire beside him. He scanned the
crowd, not for weapons, but for faces. The civilians would be panicked, the
enemy not necessarily. They’d be more likely to remain standing for just a
moment longer, looking for where the threat was coming from, whereas the
civilians wouldn’t care.

They’d
just hit the deck once their brains and bodies realized they should.

Someone
made eye contact.

He
fired, nailing the man in the shoulder. He spun around then dropped to the
floor as both teams advanced, Dawson motioning for Spock and Wings to secure
the Secretary. Another shot was fired, this time by Red’s team, another person
among the hostages dropping with a cry. The mix of men and women were crying
out in panic, some screaming, others simply confused.

The
sexes were equal today, the screams and cries of panic a mix of low and high
pitches.

“Everyone
on the ground, face down, hands on your heads, now!” he shouted, the same order
being repeated by Red from the other side. “I want to see hands clasped behind
your heads or you
will
be shot!”

The
orders were quickly obeyed as he reached the man he had shot, pushing him over
onto his back with his boot. A gun was raised toward him.

Dawson
put two shots in his chest, the question of whether or not the man was innocent
settled for eternity. He scanned the crowd, now all on the floor as his eight
man team trained their weapons on them. Jagger stepped on the hand of the man
he shot then reached down and yanked his jacket up.

Beretta.

“Control,
Bravo Zero-One. Hostages secure, seven hostiles dead, one wounded. Have SWAT
secure the foyer, we’re going to start sending the hostages out one at a time,
over.”

“Roger
that Bravo Zero-One, SWAT moving into position now.”

Dawson
pointed at Red’s team. “Begin searching them, one at a time. When they’re confirmed
clean, send them out the doors for processing.”

“Yes,
Sergeant Major.”

Jagger
hauled the wounded hostile to his feet, the man yelping in pain.

“Cuff
him, search him, then hand him over. We’re out of here in five.”

Jagger
nodded, binding the man’s wrists with a zip tie. Tight.

Dawson
walked over to the Secretary of Defense. “Are you okay, Mr. Secretary?”

He
nodded, then motioned toward a body nearby, a black man who looked like he had
been dead for some time. “They were after him, not me.”

Dawson’s
eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? Who is he?”

“Vice
President Okeke of Sierra Leone. He was here for a security meeting to discuss
our Ebola response in West Africa.”

“What
makes you think they were after him?”

“They
shot him first then secured the room. It was as if he had to die and they
couldn’t risk not succeeding.”

Dawson
frowned. “What about their demands? They wanted quite a bit of money to let you
go.”

The
Secretary of Defense shook his head. “Smoke screen. At least that’s my
opinion.”

“Mr.
Secretary!”

He
looked toward the door where several suits were rushing in, clearly a Secret
Service detail and some aides.

“That’s
my ride, I guess.” The Secretary extended a hand. “I have a feeling I know who
you are. Thank your men for me. You have my eternal gratitude.”

Dawson
shook the man’s hand, pleased the person responsible for managing his line of
work for the Executive Branch had a solid, dry handshake. “Thank you, sir. I’ll
pass it on.”

The
Secretary left immediately with his escort as the room filled with G-Men.
Dawson activated his comm. “Bravo Team, Bravo Zero-One. Stand down, repeat,
stand down, we leave in two, out.”

Dawson watched
as the last of the hostages left, nothing but law enforcement and bodies
remaining.

And
wondered why the Vice President of some small, poor Ebola ravaged country would
be worth so many lives.

Murray Town Barracks, Freetown, Sierra Leone

Major Adofo Koroma sucked in a deep breath then nodded to his
driver. The transport truck, signed out by him that morning from the motor pool,
lurched forward. He had to admit he had butterflies. Not from fear but
anticipation, fear drummed out of his psyche months ago after watching his wife
and son waste away and die from Ebola, turned away from the only treatment
center hundreds of miles from his village.

We’re
full, sorry.

The
cities were being paid attention to while those in the north, traditionally not
supporters of the government here in Freetown, were being ignored.

Silence
us all through death.

He had
been a loyal soldier, and still was in a way. He loved his country, believed
things were getting better, but more for those who were in the cities. The
rural areas were left to their own devices to solve their problems. He
understood that the Ebola treatment centers had to be placed where they were
most needed, but to completely abandon the rural areas was inexcusable.

They had
to at least provide them with supplies, some aid workers to at least provide
advice.

But his
village had been abandoned, even the local government representatives leaving
to stay at a military base to avoid the virus and the questions.

And now
his daughter was sick.

Five
years old.

Already
devastated by the death of her mother and brother, she was too young to
understand what was going on and it tore at his heart. Enough so that he was
here today, committing what in most people’s eyes would be treason.

Unless
they had been placed in an impossible situation like he had, and had the
resources he did at his disposal.

And that
was men.

Loyal
men.

Men that
were willing to die for their cause.

And eleven
already had.

One
thing about living in a poor country with traditionally large families was that
it was almost guaranteed you had relatives in the United States. Over the past
twenty years many from his village and the surrounding area had given up and
emigrated, most to America. Almost anyone who had managed to get an education
was gone. It was a brain drain that the great Western democracies refused to
acknowledge. They sought out those with skills they needed, and took them from
the poor countries that needed their expertise even more.

It
should be a crime against humanity to take a doctor from a third world country.

The only
advantage of losing the youngest and brightest from their poor communities was
they sent money home. That hard currency gave their poor relatives, unlucky
enough to not have the skills that the West desired, a chance to buy the
essentials of life.

But
nothing could buy the care needed when Ebola struck.

Treatment
centers couldn’t be bribed, not with Western doctors controlling the intake
process, and there just wasn’t enough room even if they could.

The
situation was desperate, especially in his village where nearly a quarter of
the population was either sick or caring for someone who was.

His wife
and son were among the first to die.

And it
was all so unnecessary.

The West
had the money and the expertise to solve this. But because it was Africa, because
they were black, and because they didn’t have oil, the reaction had been slow.
Sure there were now British and Canadian troops along with dozens of aid
organizations setting up new facilities in his country, but it had taken six
months to get a reaction.

Thousands
had died, tens of thousands more would still die.

All
because it hadn’t been an interesting enough story for the news stations to
cover.

And
someone had to pay.

It was a
decision he hadn’t come to lightly and today was the second part of his plan,
the first part carried out last night in Washington by his brother and several
others from his village and the surrounding area who now lived in the United
States.