Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) (7 page)

Head pounding, Derek skidded around
corners, skirting around the Citadel mound, trying not to get sidetracked away from getting out of the city. The Fiat was a junker, blowing smoke, now nearly windowless, rattling and chugging, straining as he urged it on as fast as it could go.

Seeing a tank, he skidded the car left, desperate to avoid the Syrian Army. He sideswiped a street sign, almost lost control of the car, saw a clearing, and gunned it.

The car coughed, hesitated, caught and leapt forward.

Twenty-five minutes later he was out of the city on an empty highway heading north. At the first chance he pulled the car to the side of the road and checked Hammond. Unconscious, he’d taken a bullet in the left shoulder, which had punched out the front, taking a chunk of flesh and bone with it. The wound bled heavily.

Taking off his one of his shirts and scarf, he pressed them into the wounds, and bound them in place with his makeshift sling. Hammond didn’t make a sound. His pulse against Derek’s fingers was steady, but slow.

Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw that his own head and neck were covered with blood. Turning, wincing, he fingered a groove in his skull. It bled like a sonofabitch, but didn’t think it was major, although he had a hell of a headache.

Tearing at one of his shirtsleeves, he pressed the patch of cloth to his skull, put the Fiat back into drive and raced north.

It was the
middle of the night by the time Derek pulled the wheezing Fiat up to the front gate of Incirlik Air Base in Turkey, 210 miles from Aleppo. He had stopped twice to check on Hammond, who remained unconscious through the entire journey. Parts of the trip were lost in a haze; he wasn’t certain if he had been asleep or in a fog of pain and exhaustion. He only remembered thinking he had to keep moving forward.

Derek remembered seeing a handful of commercial vehicles heading north and way too many refugees pushing bicycles or piled into slow-moving vehicles. Hundreds, easily. Crossing the border turned out to be fairly straightforward. He’d studied options before the mission and knew of a dozen routes that bypassed the official border crossings. That part he remembered, because for a time he was afraid that he had gotten lost and disoriented, that he might be accidentally heading south or east.

The guards at the gate were more than a little suspicious. Derek stepped out of the car, hands up, and stumbled, sinking to the tarmac. Hands raised, he said, “Americans. I’m with the State Department. My partner is seriously wounded.”

The Air Force guard said, “So are you, buddy.”

The Air Force
doctor had red hair and freckles. She said, “This shoulder is bad. You’ve had multiple surgeries already. On the knee, the other shoulder, and abdomen.”

“That was a gunshot.”

She looked down at him where he laid. “Maybe you should stop doing that.”

“Good idea.”

“Well, I’m going to have a surgeon come in and look at the shoulder. I think a head X-ray is due for the wound to the head. Gunshot, too?”

“Just a graze.”

“Oh shut up. Half an inch to the left and you wouldn’t be here at all.”

“I try not to think about it.”

She studied him. “You’re with State?”

“You bet.”

“And your friend? He’s in pretty bad shape. Worse than you.”

“Is he going to make it?”

“I think so. But he’s got a longer road ahead of him. Two wounds to the torso. Infection. He with State, too?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm-hmmm. After the surgeon sees you I’ll get you some pain meds unless he’s going to do surgery right away.”

The surgeon decided to operate on his shoulder in about an hour. While Derek waited an
IV
dripped into his arm and a humorless man in a dark suit with credentials identifying him as being with the State Department asked him questions.

“What is the exact location of this apartment you were in?”

Derek showed him on a map.

“And the doctor’s office? His brother’s café?”

The questions went on and on, all addressed with heavy skepticism. The man had dark hair worn short and parted on the left, a fleshy face and razor burn where he shaved at his neck. Anger kept popping up in Derek like a lizard climbing out of its hole.

“So you didn’t accomplish your mission.”

Derek stared at the man for a long moment. He finally said, “Get out.”

“Dr. Stillwater—”

“Out!”

“I’m not finished with my questions.”

Derek rolled sideways off the bed onto his feet. The
IV
line tugged at his arm. He wasn’t in great shape, but he was in good enough shape to kick this asshole’s teeth in. The guy scrambled to his feet, sudden fear on his round face. “I’ll put this in my report!”

“You do that. And when you talk to Bob Mandalevo, tell him he can stick his report up his ass, too.”

The nurse knocked at the door at that moment, stepped in and eyed the two men. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Derek snapped.

“We’ll talk later,” the State Department flunky promised.

“No,” Derek said. “We won’t. I’ll talk to the Secretary, but I won’t talk to you. But give him my message. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

Expressionless, the official turned and walked out. The nurse said, “Not a friend of yours?”

“No. Drug me up. I need a nap.”

“Will do.”

Derek slept for
a couple days. As surgery went, it was relatively minor. The surgeon expressed concern about possible nerve damage to the shoulder. “Only time will tell. There was a lot of damage and it didn’t help matters that you didn’t get proper treatment for several days.”

Glowering at him, Derek said, “That’s just fucking great.”

The surgeon was a tall, solidly built African-American. He wore green surgical scrubs and looked like he ate children for breakfast, even though he’d been nothing but calm and professional with Derek. He studied Derek for a moment, and gestured to the chair next to the bed. “Mind if I sit down?”

If Derek could shrug, he would have, but his shoulder was bound and bandaged and even small movements caused pain to shoot through shoulder. His head still hurt from the skull fracture, and occasionally, even though he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, his vision would double for a while before going back to normal. This double vision was usually accompanied by an intense wave of nausea and vertigo.

“Fine.”

The doc sat. “Name’s Steve Everline. I’m pretty sure I introduced myself earlier, but maybe not.”

Derek just stared at him.

Dr. Everline scratched at his jaw with one hand. “I don’t know what happened to you and Hammond over there in Syria. And I understand it’s classified. But I’m getting reports that you’re being difficult and uncooperative.”

“What’s your point?”

The surgeon sighed. “The point is I suspect something happened to you more than getting shot a couple times, which is bad enough. Or you saw some bad shit. What I’m saying, Dr. Stillwater, is if you need to talk to someone, we’ve got counselors and psychologists on staff.”

“You through?”

“I am.” He stood up and held out a hand. Slowly, Derek took it. “I’ll be back to check on you later today. Meanwhile, get some rest.”

A day later
he was released from medical care and given temporary quarters. He found Hammond in the hospital, wired up, patched up, and awake.

“Hey,” Hammond said.

Sitting at the bedside, Derek said, “How do you feel?”

“Like morphine is one of my favorite things.”

“When do they say you’ll get out of here?”

Hammond flicked a hand in lieu of a shrug. “They had to re-do the dead doc’s work, cut out a chunk of intestine. I’m on heavy-duty antibiotics. Collapsed lung, broken ribs, torn up scapula … Hey, it was a party. It’ll be a while. You heading stateside?”

“I’ve got reports to write, then I’m going to Russia for a while.”

“To see your kid.”

Derek nodded. “You going to be fully functional?”

“You going somewhere with that?”

“Are you going to be able to go back into operations?”

“Only time will tell, but yeah, I think so.”

“Want to?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “Hell yeah.”

They sat there in companionable silence. Derek thought maybe Hammond dozed off, but he said, “On the drive back, I was out of it most of the time. But I did come to for a while. The car was on the side of the road and you were gone.”

Derek remembered. He’d pulled off to take a piss. He’d also wanted to check the stars and see if he could get his bearings. Walking a dozen feet from the car, he’d emptied his bladder, grown dizzy, and collapsed to the ground. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but when he came to he staggered to his feet and walked off, confused in the dark, losing the car and the road.

“Yeah,” he said. “Bad moment there.”

“The nurse told me you were in pretty bad shape. Concussion, skull fracture, shot up shoulder. But you made it all the way here. Saved my life.”

“In the job description.”

Hammond nodded and held out his fist. Derek bumped it with his own.

“For the record, Stillwater. I’d work with you again in a heartbeat. You’re pretty tough. For an old guy.”