Sabotage: Beginnings (13 page)

Fury gripped his bicep and leaned in close. “Think it’ll work?”

Justice inhaled a giant lungful of hot air and held it, considering how he would lie to his own brother. His focus was on Ben Franklin—not saving Fury’s ass.

“Yeah.” Justice slipped his lie between tight pressed lips. “We’ll drop you off about three miles from base. You’ll have to carry McDuff back. Just make it believable.”

“That sounds like a stretch. What if they don’t buy it?”

“You’ll be out. Or court-martialed for murder.”

“Pay attention, I got headlights in the rear,” Batya warned.

Justice glanced toward Fury. He’d pulled the weapon to a ready-gun position and looked prepared to fight. Justice’s gut twisted a quarter knot. He knew Batya was capable, but felt guilty for dragging his brother into the situation he’d caused by trusting that crooked local cop, Jabar bin Hamid.

In his side mirror, he saw small dots of light bouncing on the horizon. He’d smashed their rear brake lights before they left, so whoever it was hadn’t tracked by sight. There had to be a bug in the car or a drone above.

What are my options?

“They are gaining on our position. Something is guiding them, Justice. They’re coming too quick in this terrain.” Batya’s voice began to flatten—her warrior’s tone.

“Locals?” Justice asked.

“Only if they have tracking equipment to pursue us in the darkness so aggressively.”

Justice swallowed back a worm of hot bile that signaled his body was prepped to battle. It also told him he was exhausted from the fight and would really rather not engage these threats.

“I got it, but we have to move fast.”

Justice slipped the truck around a dune and they lost sight of the dots. Fury carried Batya southeast atop uneven mounds of sand. Justice knew she’d quickly take sight on the truck to cover him while he maneuvered. Fury took a flanking position to the north of the truck as Justice had instructed.

He positioned the three Afghani bodies in the truck. One was set in the driver’s seat and his hands were fastened upright to look like he had surrendered. Justice lugged McDuff’s headless corpse into a small grove of shrubs to the southwest. It placed Fury in a risk of cross fire, but space and time were limited and Justice knew Batya’s discipline was beyond either of theirs.

He’d dug in as fast as he could. Heart thudding against his chest—he feared the soldiers would hear him. McDuff’s body was laid long ways with Justice flattened behind him. He watched as the headlights grew larger and were soon accompanied by the whine of an engine and creaks of a metal vehicle frame.

He’d emptied the truck of all weapons except the one he staged in the passenger’s hands. Justice wiggled his nose at the swarm of pests that buzzed and stuck to the concoction of sweat and sand that caked his face. He couldn’t afford to clear them away from his mouth or spit them out. Those fuckers would just get the best of him for now.

“Americans, show your hands,” A voice yelled in Pashto from the vehicle parked about fifteen yards away. He knew they were too close, but he’d left the decoy parked just behind the curve for that purpose—to determine whether drone, transmitter or dumb luck guided them. It appeared to be the transmitter option.

“The other two, show you hands. Now.” A pause, then the voice escalated to angry, “Fire!”

Justice ducked his face into the rock-hard side of the rotting corpse as hundreds of rounds of bullets tore through the three bodies and ricocheted off the truck’s metal frame. The bright explosions of chambered gas ignited creating flashes of brilliant white, orange and yellow lights. He squinted into the muzzle blasts. An AK47 had a uniquely distinctive rattle when fired. There was no doubt these were bad guys who toted surplus Russian rifles.

Justice counted at least eight different weapons being fired. On his signal, they would easily dispatch a close-quartered gaggle of only eight soldiers, but should they? He preferred stealthy, covert operations. This whole mess had been anything but quiet. Justice backed his finger away from the trigger.

If they drive off, they live.

During a break in the savage attack, he heard the clicking of thin metal ammunition magazines being ejected and fresh ones being loaded. The clicks and clangs of bolts being racked, chambering bullets to be fired, alerted him they were ready to shoot more.

The chaotic episode also signaled that these men were not trained professionals. Real pros would never leave everyone unloaded—they’d stagger their fire so while one group shot and reloaded, the other half would continue with cover fire. These seemed to be more locals with piss-poor training and a high-tech vehicle transmitter.

“Just drive away,” Justice whispered. “Just drive away.”

“Fuck you, America,” Yelled another voice, but in English. It sounded young, maybe a teenager.

Justice dug his boots deeper into the sand, and rocked his face back and forth to shake away the stinging pests. That last comment pissed him off—it really fucking pissed him off. He slipped his right index finger through the trigger guard and eased it back against the ridged metal tongue. He felt the slack come out of the pull, and he hesitated.

“What you want to do, Bro?” Fury’s impatient voice broke the headset’s squelch.

Justice felt a pounding drum beat in his temples. He waited and listened to their constant taunts and threats. If they’d again trusted the locals in this land, they would have been riddled with hot lead.

These fuckers will always hate America so why not end their lives now before they kill one of ours later?

“Get ready, but we gotta take them all out in that truck. Can’t let them scatter.” It was an emotional decision, but he didn’t care. He was fed up.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Batya asked.

“Okay, boss, whatever you say.” Loyal Fury responded, hesitant but ready to do as his big brother suggested.

Justice waited. Closest to the truck, he could almost smell them. He hated them. He hated what they stood for and how they resented everything the United States had done to liberate them from the tyranny of oppression. What a bunch of fucking hypocrites. They deserved to die.

“Come on, boys. Momma calling to go home. Poppa is still very ill,” said one of the occupants.

“Poppa is scary. Let’s not go home till he sleeps. He hurts me,” said a younger voice, spoken in soft dread.

The tone and the words took Justice back to the bayou. His own father had hurt him too. A drunken brawler, the man’s nightly boozing and stumbling home to punch out their mom still sickened Justice. He shook his head to sweep the memories, but childhood torture still cut deep. Poor Rage, the oldest of the seven, got it the worst and the longest. That was until Justice was old enough to at least block the first few punches to distract the old man away from Rage.

“Stand down,” he slipped the words through quivering lips. Killing would only do them a favor.

The old sand vehicle chewed through the gears as it tried to turn around inside the narrow alley. Headlights swung wildly across his position. He ducked low, smashed his face against ground that appeared to shift in the moving shadows. The vehicle finally lumbered away. Justice blew out a breath in relief.

He tried to survey their vehicle but wasn’t able to tell much in the dark. He’d expected it to erupt into flames as the hundreds of rounds pierced it, but luckily it was still intact. The three bodies hadn’t fared so well though.

“
Wadrega
,” a voice yelled. Their vehicle came to an immediate stop.

Justice ducked. Had they seen him? Then he heard the thud and distinctive pin pop. He buried his head beneath his arms. The grenade exploded. The truck juddered and burst into hellish red flames. The fire licked the gasoline cans until the teasing ignited another eruption.

“
Kha woraz walary
,” the young voice jeered as the vehicle bobbled away with all of the boys laughing.

“Did he just say ‘Have a nice day?” Batya radioed.

Justice was madder than a mosquito in a mannequin factory. “Fucking little pricks. We should’ve shot them when we had the chance.”

“You made the right call, Bro. They’ll get what they got coming soon enough.”

“You might be right. Let’s fall in and see if we can salvage anything from this heap.”

Batya’s voice came across solemn, “I’ll remain to provide cover over-watch.”

Justice clicked the headphone twice to signal it was okay for her to remain located on the elevated position. He grabbed at his cache of weapons and gear with filthy hands, felt the buzz of the Agency’s encrypted satellite phone inside the go bag. Curious why they’d initiate contact, he squatted close to the zipper to reveal the device.

[Asset status?]

Why the fuck is the CIA text messaging me like a high school cheerleader on a Friday night?

[Code 4]
Justice stamped out a reply.

[Stay low]
the message read.

“Stay low?” Justice let slip over the microphone.

“Repeat,” Batya asked.

“Home base just sent message to stay low,” Justice advised.

“They’re also–” Batya’s transmission was cut off with a loud blast of light and sound. The old vehicle that had toted the eight jackals was blown to smithereens.

Justice groaned as his frazzled frame slammed back onto the hard ground as shockwaves followed the drone’s initial strike.

Fingers blistering on hot rocks, Justice clawed at the solid soil as he scrambled to conceal his position. He wasn’t sure it was a drone strike, but realized they’d been tracked and targeted by both homegrown terrorists and his home agency. He shoved his big body beneath some sparse, prickly brush, the best the desert had to offer for greenery. He scanned the area for more locals, American troops or CIA technology? Paranoia began to eat at him.

Fuck, I hadn’t even considered Ben. Are they trying to take us all out?

“W
hat the hell
are you trying to do?” Justice spat in broken breaths. He willed himself to steady the deep-brewed anger.

“Do not contact us unless told to do so,” a sniveling voice taunted from the other end of the satellite phone.

“Boyd, that you? I’m not surprised. Where’s your daddy, Dunnigan?” Justice’s skin prickled at the young bureaucrat’s snide tone.

“You’ve broken protocol, Agent. This could mean termination.” Boyd’s tone was almost a snicker.

Justice pressed his finger to his lips and Fury, who approached, waved to show he understood. Justice pointed two fingers towards his eyes and then swung the fingers around and back and forth across the area. Fury lifted his rifle and disappeared back into the darkness.

“Do you hear me, Boudreaux?”

Justice licked his sand-coated lips, and tried to swallow down the lump of vitriol in his throat. “Put Dunnigan on the line.”

“Where is Operative Batya Cohen?”

“No names, you asshole. You’re going to compromise her.”

Boyd hummed a taunting tune into the phone. “You said my name, so what’s the difference?”

“Because your patsy ass has never gone further than from the desk to the food court to pick up lunches for the real operatives. No one gives a shit about Robert Boyd. Other than Robert Boyd of course.”

“We’ll see.” Boyd’s tone changed. “I’m dispatching a private security force to your location to take your AWOL brother into custody. Seems none of you Boudreauxs are capable of following rules.”

Justice clamped his teeth down against his tongue. His powerful fingers squeezed the phone’s cradle case. He squinted into the night but knew Fury wouldn’t be anywhere within the glow of either vehicle that burned about forty yards apart. He hated himself for what he’d gotten his brother into. He had to fix it—but how?

Justice sucked in a gulp of thick air. “Listen to me good, boy. Interfere with my mission and you’ll pay with an ass whipping your momma should’ve given you years ago. You fuck with my family and it’ll be you instead of Ben Ford that I take out next. You might think you’re powerful behind a keyboard, but you don’t have a fucking clue the horrible shit real men do to pussies like you.” He smashed the receiver off.

Justice climbed to his feet and patted his tactical vest to find the radio transmitter. Usually designed for short-range transmissions, he wouldn’t dare speak into the microphone. He clicked Morse code instead:

.-. / .- / .-.. / .-.. / -.—
(Rally)

He stalked the area with his weapon at a ready position. Two major explosions were sure to draw attention from either side. He’d tried to stay focused on hunting Ben, but bullshit and bureaucracy made it impossible. Fury whistle chirped three times to alert Justice.

“Come over,” he said to his brother. “Where’s Batya?”

They both stopped. He pressed the headphone close to his ear, which still rang from the concussion of the eruptions.

--- / -. // -- / .
(On me)

“She’s staying put. Let’s move to her and higher ground,” he said, clutching Fury’s shirt.

Fury pulled away. “What’s going on with that call?”