“Tarek, turn off that filth and get us some tea,” Zeus commanded while lighting a cigarette. “I swear to you, your bombs will never do as much damage as your American pornography. It will be the death of this country.”
Tarek cursed loudly when the video he clicked on refused to load and slammed the computer shut.
“I keep telling you that we need better Internet. How am I supposed to do my job when I must wait an hour to download anything?” He stood with a huge smile, popped the front of his leather jacket like he’d seen in the movie, and swept Mason up in a backbreaking hug. “He has been on a long journey. I am sure he doesn’t want tea. I have something much better.” Tarek released Mason and disappeared into the small kitchen. A moment later, he returned with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and three glasses. He poured a healthy amount of the golden liquid into the glasses before passing them around.
“To the return of a good friend.” Holding the glass high, he slammed the contents down with a fluidity born of practice. Once all the glasses had been refilled, cigarettes were passed out and Zeus moved to the center of the table.
“So what do you guys have for me?” Mason asked.
“I hate to be the one to tell you, but the files you downloaded, they were all corrupted,” Tarek said as gently as he could. “I thought I could fix them, but right now it’s not looking good.”
“Shit…” Mason felt the bottom fall out of his plan and prayed that Zeus had something.
“Don’t worry, my pale friend, once again I, the almighty Zeus, have come through,” the large Arab said with a flourish. “You didn’t give us very much to work with, but we made it happen. There have been three Americans who entered the country in the last two days.” He pulled three pictures off the top of the large stack and laid them out on the table with the flourish of a showman.
Mason leaned in to get a better look. The photos had been taken with a telephoto lens, and the date and time stamps were visible at the bottom. He frowned at the first picture and idly flicked his cigarette as he studied the eyes then the nose and ears. Mason knew that if they wore a disguise, these would be the hardest parts to change.
“I don’t know this guy,” he said before moving to the second image. After studying the second photo for a few moments, he shook his head and, using his forefinger, pulled the final picture to the center of the table.
As soon as he laid his eyes on the final picture a jolt of recognition rose up his spine like an electric shock.
It was Decklin.
Mason could feel his heart beating faster in his chest as he leaned in farther to make sure. Ash drifted from his lit cigarette and fell like gray snowflakes on the picture.
Mason stared at the image with a visceral hatred, focusing on Decklin’s eyes, which looked like two piss holes in the snow. The man had ruined his life, and he felt the edges of the picture slice into his hand as his fist closed around it. How well he remembered every single detail of that fateful day.
He and Decklin were in the lead vehicle as they drove over the pitted Libyan roads toward the town of Sirte. They were following a low-level asset to the city, and due to the danger outside the vehicle, inside the cab of the truck the mood was tense.
“You shouldn’t have gone against the colonel like that,” Decklin said as he tried to keep the target vehicle in view.
Mason had been watching his teammate stew for the last hour and was relieved that he’d finally broached the subject.
“What did you expect me to do? He murdered those people.”
“That’s not your call to make. I’m telling you that you fucked up big.”
Mason knew that Decklin really didn’t care what happened to him. The man had hated him from the moment he joined the unit and had been waiting for him to fail since the first day. He could see the outskirts of the city ahead and would be glad to get out of the truck and stretch his legs. If Decklin knew that he’d reported the colonel, then he was sure that Barnes knew, and it made him uneasy.
Barnes had handpicked him to join the unit, and most of the senior guys resented him for that. While the rest of the team held Mason at arm’s length, the colonel had taken a personal interest in him, even promoting him above guys like Decklin.
Turning on the colonel was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. The man was like a father to him, but he’d lost touch with reality, even if no one wanted to admit it. Barnes was more focused on Libya than Iraq or Afghanistan, and now that their team had been sent into the country to overthrow Gaddhafi, Mason was having serious doubts about how much more he could take.
The target vehicle made a turn ahead of them, and Decklin hit the gas to keep from losing it around the corner.
“Pay attention, you’re getting too close,” Mason said.
Decklin ignored him and cut the wheel to avoid a gaping hole in the dirt road. The maneuver put them too close to the wall, forcing them to take the corner blind. As soon as they made the turn, they saw the target vehicle speeding through a checkpoint that had been set up on the road.
“Contact front,” Mason yelled into the radio as the Gaddhafi loyalists opened up on their vehicle from twenty-five meters away. Bullets shattered the window, peppering Decklin with glass as a burst from a PKM hit the engine block of the Toyota Land Cruiser and the truck shuddered to a stop. Mason brought his rifle up from between his knees, bumping the muzzle on the dash as he flipped the safety to full auto. Getting the rifle centered on his chest, he held the trigger down and sent a long burst through the shattered glass.
His ears were ringing, but adrenaline numbed the pain as he threw the door open and rolled out onto the road. Getting caught in a near-side ambush was something they trained for, and Mason knew that his team had to gain fire superiority if they were going to break contact. He could smell the gun oil burning off the rifle as he hammered through his first magazine and began looking for a better position.
“Moving,” he yelled as Decklin ran to the rear of the vehicle and tossed out a frag. Once his teammate started firing, he sprinted across the road toward the cover provided by a dilapidated warehouse five meters away. Changing magazines on the run, he found a position along the wall and reengaged the blocking position.
Mason needed to keep his head down while the rest of the team moved up.
Jones was on the radio calling for an emergency extraction as the team flowed into the building, firing as they moved, and Mason counted each one as they passed him.
Decklin was the last man to make it across the street, and after Mason touched his shoulder and added him to his count, he tossed a smoke grenade out into the street.
The team was already finding positions to defend their small perimeter when Mason entered the building. Decklin was directing Hoyt to blow an improvised firing port in the wall with a breaching charge, and Mason began looking for work.
There was an open window on the south side of the warehouse and Mason took his position next to the opening just as the charge went off. He was turning to get Decklin’s attention when he came under fire from an open field, outside the window.
Mason ducked out of the way as the heavy rounds chipped shards of brick off the windowsill that pelted him in the face. Firing two quick bursts at his attackers, he dumped the magazine out of the rifle and was slipping a fresh one into the mag well when he heard the unmistakable sound of a grenade bouncing off the concrete floor to his rear.
Tink, tink.
He could hear the metal body rolling toward him and, without hesitating, dove through the window. Mason hit the ground awkwardly. He felt a sharp pain in his shoulders as the explosion blew a brown cloud of shrapnel and stucco over his head.