The pain was nauseating. I grunted, but forced it into a laugh. “What kind of limp-dick carries a gun like that anyway? He’s compensating for something.” I forced myself to laugh so hard I started wheezing. It actually hurt. And that’s when I saw the briefest flash of a metallic trinket hanging inside her shirt. The necklace looked familiar. No. That’s impossible. But then she was backing away, hands balled into fists, and it was out of sight.
She was really pissed off now. She was about to come at me again when the old man spoke up. “That’ll be all, McAllister,” he said gruffly. Sarah gave me one last defiant look before leaving.
Big Boss then turned his attention back to me. “Don’t worry, friend. This won’t take too long. I’ll have you singing like a bird by the time my men get packed. I was interrogating Communists when your mommy gave your daddy the clap for the first time.” Big Boss strode out, pausing just long enough to drop the box and my radio on a table by the exit.
“Don’t hurry on my account,” I called after him.
He paused and smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. You don’t have to wait up for me. Walker, start with the pinky.”
Oh hell.
“Yes, sir,” said the shorter one cheerfully, obviously excited. The other dude slammed his weight into me, pinning me into the wall. I thrashed, but with my wrist handcuffed, it wasn’t like I had a lot of maneuverability with that hand. The one called Conrad punched me in the stomach, which got my attention just long enough for Walker to latch onto my fist. While I struggled, he pried my pinky loose and yanked it back. I screamed as it broke with a sick crack.
VALENTINE
Goddamn it, I thought to myself bitterly. I knew it was too good to be true. I cursed myself for staying with Dead Six. We should’ve used the confusion of Project Heartbreaker being terminated to sneak out and link up with Ling’s people. We could’ve slipped away, and with everything being packed up and shipped out, they’d have had no time to try to find us. It would’ve been perfect.
Instead, here I was, decked out in full battle rattle with a rifle slung across my chest and a bandage on my arm. The fort was on full lockdown. Everyone healthy enough to hold a weapon was kitted up and told to be on the alert. Despite Hal’s painkillers, I hurt, and my face was bruised and swollen. Worse, the sky had clouded over. Thunder rumbled overhead; it was threatening to rain.
Most of us were standing by on the docks at the north side of the fort. They sat just beyond a huge stone arch in the old wall of Fort Saradia. Colonel Hunter had ordered patrols of the compound as well. Every person that could be spared hurriedly loaded equipment onto the dock. Word was Hunter was going to try to get the boat to come sooner. My own personal gear, including a backpack full of money, was still in my room. I really hoped I’d have time to get it before we had to board the boat.
We were prepared for the worst. We’d emptied the armory and broken out all of our heavy weapons. We quickly set up defensive fighting positions covering both the gate and the docks, backed up with machine guns, RPGs, Javelin missile launchers, and everything else we had lying around. If the Zubarans came looking for a fight, they were in for a big surprise.
We couldn’t take everything with us. I was shocked at how much weaponry they’d stockpiled in our armory. Most of it had been locally acquired, either captured or given to us by the Zubarans. There was a lot of Chinese and Russian hardware. We’d rigged the supply building, where the armory was, with explosives. As soon as we cleared out, we’d blow the rest of it in place so General Al Sabah’s troops couldn’t make use of it.
Sarah was with me. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She’d put on her body armor like I asked. It was soft armor, useless against rifle fire. We couldn’t find any regular armor that would fit her. She carried a Mk. 16 5.56mm carbine in her hands and had her Sig .45 on her hip. Sarah had a serious look on her face as she kept watch over the harbor.
God, she’s beautiful.
“I’ve got a boat in sight!” someone shouted. He was looking out over the bay with a pair of night-vision binoculars. “It’s a ways out, approaching slowly.”
“Is that our ride?” someone else asked. “Did the colonel talk them into showing up early?”
“Sarah, go tell Colonel Hunter we have a boat in sight,” I said. Most of our radios were packed away, and our network had been dismantled. We had to communicate the old-fashioned way.
“Okay. I’ll be right back.” Sarah trotted off, disappearing from sight.
The group was smoking and joking, eager to head for home. Holbrook, the only surviving member of Singer’s chalk, was telling everybody that the beers were on him as soon as we got to a non-shitty country. Now I could see the lights of the boat. They were growing quickly.
“Gimme those.” Tailor stole the binocs from the guy using them. He scowled. “Val, that boat looks too small. . . .”
There were several quick flashes from the boat. I could see them clearly without night vision. The sound came an instant later. “Get down!” I screamed, pulling Tailor to the ground. The tracers were high, hitting the fort wall behind us, showering us in dust and debris. But then the gunner adjusted fire and walked the bullets into the dock. Chunks of concrete and wood went flying as heavy rounds punched through walls, equipment, and men. Two streams of tracers zipped from the boat as it hosed our position with twin fifty-caliber machine guns.
“Return fire!” Tailor yelled, trying to make himself heard over the chaos. A fire erupted behind us as the boat’s armor-piercing/incendiary rounds ignited something flammable. “Take that boat out! Somebody grab a Javelin!” Fillmore and Chetwood ran for the missile launcher.
The boat was still hundreds of yards out. It gunned its engines and sped up, continuously firing on our position. Several men were able to bring their weapons to bear and return fire, but to no effect.
Through the three-and-a-half power magnification of my ACOG scope our attacker looked like a patrol boat of the Zubaran Coast Guard. Leaning around the barricade of sandbags I was using for cover, I squeezed the trigger, popping off shot after shot at the incoming boat. It strafed the dock again, twin tongues of flame tearing into our position with lethal results.
“Where is that goddamned Javelin?” Tailor screamed again, firing his weapon as he did so. I looked around, trying to figure out what happened to our missile crew. They were on the other side of the entrance to the dock, about twenty-five meters from my position. Fillmore and Chetwood were lying behind a pile of sandbags, blood everywhere. Chetwood had been decapitated. Fillmore was missing an arm and screaming his head off. Christ . . .
“I got it!” Holbrook shouted. He slung his weapon behind his back and ran into the open just as the incoming patrol boat opened fire again. I watched in horror as a heavy .50-caliber round smacked into him, punching through his body armor like it wasn’t there. The bullet exploded out his side in a spray of blood, guts, and bits of shattered ceramic. Holbrook didn’t make a noise as he went down.
If we didn’t get that missile, we were all dead. “Tailor, I’m going,” I said, feeling no fear as the Calm pushed all emotions aside. Without hesitation, I sprinted for the other position and jumped over Holbrook’s body. I made it across. I dropped to the deck and slid to a stop on my knees. I roughly pushed aside Fillmore and picked up the Javelin launcher. Shouldering the heavy beast, I looked through the sophisticated sight and pointed the weapon toward the Zubaran patrol boat.