Sniper Elite (36 page)

“Shit,” Couture said, putting his hands on his hips. “I wish he'd gone with the RPGs. At least then he'd have taken some of the bastards with him.”

Gil led the horse north up the lane toward Sandra's quarters, crossing in front of the row of houses this time, rather than behind.

“I wish we knew what the hell he can see that we can't.” Couture griped. “Anybody in here got a cigarette?”

No one did.

“Goddamnit.”

As Gil was passing the last house on the lane, a villager came from inside and walked out to intercept him, his hands spread out before him in a gesture of confusion.

“Must be the owner,” someone remarked.

Gil put the suppressor of the .45 right up against his forehead and started walking him backward into the house. It seemed an eternity before he finally reemerged.

“That does it!” Couture hissed. “Sergeant Becker! Go find me a pack of cigarettes. I don't care what brand or who you have to mug to get them.”

“Yes, sir!” The Air Force sergeant jumped up and hurried from the room, obviously wanting to get back before he missed anything.

Gil was leading the horse straight across the road now toward Sandra's quarters, bold as a shiny brass tack.

“Look at the balls on this guy.” Couture stole a glance across the room where the black Air Force lieutenant sat behind the console, piloting the UAV. “You didn't hear that, Cynthia.”

“Hear what, sir?” she replied without looking up from her monitor.

The sergeant returned with a pack of Pall Malls.

“Throw them here, Sergeant.”

“Sir.” The sergeant pitched the smokes over the console, and the general caught them with two hands, finding a green pack of MRE matches tucked inside the cellophane.

“You're a good man, Sergeant. I take back all of the foul and disgusting things I've said about you.”

“Sir!”

Moments later Couture stood puffing away, obscured in a cloud of smoke. “Christ, I'd forgotten how good these damn
things are under stress. Thanks to this son of a bitch,” he said, gesturing at the screen, “I'll probably be smoking for the rest of my life now.”

Metcalf chuckled in spite of himself. He couldn't help it. There was too much tension in the air.

Luckily, the owner of the horse had spoken some broken English; otherwise, Gil would have had to kill him. He'd lied to the man instead, saving his life by telling him, “CIA! Danger outside! Stay here. I bring horse back.”

The villager was angry about the horse, but he believed Gil when he said there was CIA in the village and that they would kill him if he made trouble. It hadn't been all that hard to convince him, really. The CIA was usually pretty good at following through on their threats to kill someone, especially the operatives who were crazy enough to infiltrate a village so heavily occupied by enemy forces.

He walked the horse to the end of the lane and out into the open, approaching Sandra's cluster of buildings. He could see the guards through the open door of their shack, still playing cards by candlelight.
Ramesh appeared in the doorway and stood leaning with his forearm against the doorjamb, watching him. Gil didn't like the way the guy's bulk was blocking the doorway, so he stopped and pointed back in the direction he had come, waving for the man to come and see. Ramesh said something over his shoulder to the others and then stepped out to follow Gil.

Seeing the other guards were too involved in their card game to be interested, Gil turned to lead the horse back the way he had come, wanting to lure Ramesh out of view. He turned the corner and walked the horse beneath a tree, quickly tying it to a hitching rail and shrugging out of the robe. He hung the robe by the hood from a limb and hid behind the tree.

The brute came around the corner with his AK-47 in both hands. He was alert but not overly circumspect as he strolled up to the horse and said something to the robe in Pashto. In the same instant he realized he was talking to an empty coat, Gil stepped out behind him and jammed the Ka-Bar through the side of his neck, instantly severing the trachea to stifle any sound. In the same movement, he grabbed his prey by the hair with his left hand and kicked him behind the load-bearing knee to bring him down, ripping the knife out the front of the throat to sever both carotid arteries and the jugular in one swipe. Blood gushed in a fountain. Gil kicked him forward onto his face.

“You can keep the finger, motherfucker.” He shrugged back into the robe and turned around. “Now,” he muttered, flipping up the hood, “if the mountain won't come to Mohammed . . . Mohammed must come to the mountain.”

He took the stallion by the bridle and led him back toward the corner, where he set out on a direct course for the guard shack. The men were now arguing over the game. It looked like one of them was pissed over having lost. But who the fuck could tell, the way they were carrying on? He covered the thirty feet to the shack without
them paying him much attention until he stepped into the doorway and brought up the 1911.

They all grabbed for their weapons with a shout, but it was far too late. Gil shot each of them once, center mass, inside of two seconds. Then he shot them each in the head. Barely four seconds had passed by the time the slide on the 1911 locked back and the last empty shell casing tinked across the table. He pressed the magazine release with his thumb, and the empty mag clattered against the stone floor. He slipped a fresh one into the pistol and pressed the slide release, loading a round into the battery. Then he brought the horse into the guard shack to keep it out of sight.

A quick glance up the lane toward the lighted command post gave no indication that anyone had heard the brief tumult. In truth, the argument over the game would not have sounded very different from the shouts of panic. The stallion recoiled at the pungent smell of blood and shit that now filled the guard shack, but Gil stroked his neck and calmed him. He stripped the shepherd's robe and stepped out, pulling the door closed and going next door.

Without knocking, he opened the door and stepped inside, pointing the 1911 at Khan and Badira sitting beside the bed. The instant he saw the rag stuffed into Sandra's mouth, her fevered eyes blazing with fear, he knew he'd fucked up—he'd forgotten to clear the corner. He hadn't so much forgotten as deemed it unnecessary . . . which was a mistake.

He felt the cold burn of the blade pierce his rib cage from behind and whipped around to grab the wrist of his teenage assailant, viciously twisting the arm to force the young man toward the floor, snap-kicking him in the throat with the toe of his boot. The teen went unconscious, and Gil stomped his neck, separating the brainstem.

Khan got quickly up from his chair, more to get out of Gil's way than anything else, but Gil alerted to the swiftness of movement and spun to deliver the doctor a powerful Muay Thai kick to the liver.
Khan went down in a heap, crumpling against the wall and covering his head.

“Don't kill him!” Badira shouted. “He wasn't going to hurt you. He's a doctor!”

Gil holstered the pistol and shoved her aside, taking the rag from Sandra's mouth and jerking back her blankets to find her wrists hastily bound with a boot lace.

“Oh, thank God!” Sandra gasped. “I can't believe you're real!”

“I'm Master Chief Gil Shannon. I don't know if you remember me.”

Tears spilled from her sunken eyes. “You're from Montana. Your wife raises horses.”

He brushed the hair from her eyes and took the radio from his harness, pointing up at the sky. “John's up there in a Spectre. He's waiting to hear from you. Remember your authentication code?”

She nodded, choking back the tears with no little effort. She was still a soldier, and it was time to ruck up.

“This mission is unauthorized,” Gil said, giving her the radio. “In all likelihood, I've been disavowed by now, so they may not respond to a distress call from me. You have to do this like I'm not here—like you're a downed pilot in enemy territory. Understand?”

She nodded. “Help me sit up.”

He helped her sit up against the wall, then went to check the street.

She drew a breath and depressed the button on the radio: “Mayday! Mayday! This is Track Star broadcasting on the emergency band. Repeat! This is Track Star broadcasting on the emergency band. Authentication: Alpha-One-Bravo-Lima-Charlie-Five. Repeat! Alpha-One-Bravo-Lima-Charlie-Five. Does anyone copy? Over!”

The response was immediate. “Roger that, Track Star. This is Big
Ten reading you five-by-five on the emergency band. What is your location? Over.”

She looked to Gil for the information as he came back in from the street.

“They already know,” he said, “but we need to make it sound good. Tell them you're in Bazarak Village . . . directly beneath the infrared strobe.”

Sandra repeated what he said, looking somewhat dubious. “Will that be enough for them to—?”

“It's been scripted. Don't worry, they already know their part.”

Big Ten came back with their response: “Track Star, be advised we are in your vicinity and able to respond. What is your condition? Over.”

“Tell them you're being aided by indigenous forces. They're moving you to a suitable extraction zone. Ask them to stand by.”

She depressed the button. “Big Ten, be advised . . . indigenous forces are moving me to a suitable extraction zone. Will advise further. Please stand by!”

There was a longer pause this time, then a different voice came over the radio: “Track Star, be advised . . . Big Ten will remain on station as long as it takes.”

Sandra recognized the tone and timbre of her husband's voice immediately. She covered her mouth, and her face contorted with raw emotion.

Gil kicked the leg of the bed. “Soldier up and answer him.”

She fought to regain her composure but couldn't. She shook her head and tried to give him the radio.

He kicked the bed again, harder this time. “I said soldier up, Brux.”

She swallowed hard, depressing the button to reply in a choking voice: “Roger that, Big Ten . . . Will advise.”

“Good job.” Gil disappeared from the room and returned with
the heavy cloak, throwing it at Badira. “You speak English, right? Get her bundled up and ready to ride a goddamn horse.”

“Gil, I can't—”

“Relax,” he said, digging into a pouch on his harness. “I'm driving. All you gotta do is hold on to me.” He produced a bottle of clear liquid and a syringe. “First, we're going to inject that wound of yours with enough Novocain that you can use the leg if you have to.”

She sat up with her legs over the edge of the bed a minute later, wincing as he administered the first injection.

Khan inched forward across the floor, saying something to Badira.

Gil looked at Badira. “What the fuck does he want?”

Badira's eyes were fearless above the veil. “He says you should let him do that. He knows where the nerves are. It will be more effective that way.”

Gil looked at Sandra. “You trust this
haji
doc?”

She gave Khan a weary smile. “He's the only reason I'm still alive.”

Gil gave the Novocain and the syringe to Khan, then went to check the street again. “It'll be getting light in an hour. We need to roll.”

Sandra saw for the first time that he had a knife sticking from his back. “My god. There's a knife in your back!”

“I've noticed,” he said grimly, still watching up the lane through a crack in the door. “It'll have to stay where it is for now. If I pull it out, the lung cavity's gonna fill up with blood, and I'll strangle.”

“Doesn't it hurt?”

He looked at her. “Fuck yeah, it hurts!”

She snorted a laugh and covered her mouth with the three remaining fingers on her left hand. “I'm sorry,” she said, speaking through the gap where the ring finger was supposed to be. Then she laughed again, feeling lightheaded, almost giddy with relief at the total absence of pain in her leg now.

Badira was busy talking back and forth with Khan.

“What the fuck are they jabbering about?” Gil grated. “Christ, tell 'em to shut the fuck up.”

Badira looked over from where she sat beside Sandra on the edge of the bed. “Khan says he can remove the knife . . . that he can make a breathing . . . a breathing valve if you need one. Is that the right word . . .
valve
?”

“Yeah.” Gil took a moment to think the offer over. It was a risk, but he decided the check valve would be better than riding into a possible firefight with a blade in his lung. “Okay, yeah. Let's do it.”

Khan finished with the injections, and Badira started to get Sandra bundled into the robe.

“Are you really here by yourself?” Sandra said, still only half believing he was real.

“Not exactly.” He sat down backward on a chair, and Khan tore open his jacket to get a look at the knife wound. “I've got a horse in the next room.”

Sandra was feeling dizzy, her vision blurring. “You're crazy for coming here. Your wife is going to . . .” She started to cry again, shaking her head. “You shouldn't have taken such a risk for a . . . for a fucking adulteress.”

He was worried about her, able to see that she was in terrible shape, probably dying of pneumonia. No way could she walk even with her wounded leg numbed. He was only barely masking his own pain, keeping shock at bay through sheer force of will alone.

“I'll tell you a secret,” he said to her.

She stared at him as Badira helped her put her arms into the cloak, her eyes glassing over. “What?”

“He didn't say so, but I'm pretty sure John had a girlfriend in Manila . . . if that makes you feel any better.”