The same male voice he had heard before was scolding someone. Crocker heard the sound of something hitting flesh, then a muffled yelp.
When one of the men blocking the window stepped aside, he saw the terrified eyes of Ritchie, Lasher, and Mancini, who were squatting along the opposite wall. Their mouths were covered with tape and their hands were tied behind their backs.
A light of some sort beamed from the back of the room. Everyone’s attention seemed to be directed to the front. When the man standing with his back to Crocker shifted, he saw that they were all looking at Jabril.
He’d been tied naked to a chair so that his arms were behind him and his genitals exposed. A soldier stepped into view and hit the doctor across the face with a stick. His head snapped back, splashing blood across the wall and floor.
Crocker had to restrain himself from busting through the window right then. He was shocked, offended, and knew he had to move fast-before Jabril was beaten to death, or his men executed or moved somewhere else.
A peal of automatic-weapons fire went off in the distance. Crocker ducked below the window. He heard the squealing cry of an animal, followed by more gunshots, men shouting.
Hearing steps approaching along the back of the building, he hurried to the ladder and slid down, his hands wet with sweat. The steps were coming fast. On reaching the ground he turned to face the sound. An animal lunged at him, claws first. It was big, quick, and black-a dog? a hyena? He pivoted left and ducked so that it sailed past his shoulder and hit the ground, losing its footing and skidding on its side. It gathered its feet under it and turned, reared onto its back legs, and bared its teeth as if it was about to charge.
Crocker grabbed a chunk of concrete off the ground and faced it.
I dare you! I fucking dare you! his eyes blazed.
Hearing something behind it, the animal turned to look, and tore off.
Crocker took a deep breath, then hurried to the end of the barracks and circled back, retracing his steps. He found Davis hiding behind the dumpster, holding a four-foot length of lead pipe.
“I heard shots,” Davis whispered. “I thought they got you!”
“I’m fine,” he said, his chest heaving.
“Then what the fuck was that?”
“Hyenas, I think.”
“They must have crawled through the fence.”
“Maybe,” Crocker whispered, catching his breath. “I saw our guys. I know where they’re holding them.”
“Who? Where?”
“Ritchie, Mancini, Lasher, Jabril.”
“What about Akil?”
“I didn’t see him.”
“Where are they?”
Crocker pointed. “Second floor of the barracks. But I didn’t see the van.”
“I did. It’s behind that shed.”
“Which shed?”
Davis pointed to his left. “That one over there. But the doors are locked.”
“Shit.”
Davis unwrapped a rag he held in his hand. “Look what I found.”
In the light of the half moon Crocker saw a rusted jigsaw blade, a plastic lighter, a section of metal wire, an empty bottle, and several large rocks.
“The lighter works?”
“Yeah.”
Crocker’s mind was processing fast. “You see any more bottles?”
Davis pointed to the dumpster. “I think there are more inside.”
“Grab a few extras.”
“Now?”
Crocker nodded as he formulated a plan.
Davis hoisted himself up into the dumpster, handed Crocker two soda bottles, and climbed out.
“Good.”
“What now?”
“They don’t know we exist. We’ve got one chance to surprise them. Show me the van.”
“Now?”
“Go!”
They ran in a crouch, Davis first, Crocker right behind him. Around the back of the warehouse, past a broken-down tank painted with graffiti to where the van was parked under sheets of tin rattling in the breeze.
The canister of UF6 lay in back, but their weapons and gear were missing. And, as Davis had said, the doors were locked. So was the lid to the gas tank.
Crocker grabbed the container of extra fuel strapped to the rear door.
“Help me get this down,” he whispered.
They undid the latch, set the container down, untwisted the cap.
Crocker said, “Now set down the bottles.”
He lifted the container, filled the bottles with gasoline, then ripped the rag Davis was carrying and stuffed the pieces into the necks of the bottles as fuses.
Davis grinned at the three Molotov cocktails. “Nice.”
“Now,” Crocker whispered, “we need a gun.”
“Unlikely we’ll find one lying around.”
“Follow me,” he said.
Again they made a wide arc past three trashed transport trucks and the edge of the shooting range to avoid the barracks and the other soldiers.
Crocker stopped behind a concrete structure with a flagpole in the center that stood thirty feet from the four white pickups. On the other side of the trucks was the middle entrance to the barracks.
They huddled together, clutching the bottles. Crocker whispered, “See that Toyota facing us?”
Davis nodded.
“There’s a soldier sleeping on the front seat. I’ll circle around the other side. When you hear me jump the bastard and smash him with this rock, you come up from this side and grab his weapon.”
“What about the bottles?”
“Leave ’em here.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
Crocker ran like a Mohawk-on his toes, as close as possible to the ground. Reaching the front of the Toyota, he ducked below the grille and slowly slithered around the bumper to the passenger side. But when he peeked in the window, the soldier was gone.
Fuck!
Standing halfway up, he signaled to Davis to go back and was about to leave when he heard someone mumbling behind him. He froze, took a deep breath, and pivoted slowly. Looking past his shoulder into the trapezoidal space created by the parked trucks, he saw a soldier with his back to him, kneeling on a blanket, praying. An old submachine gun with a perforated barrel lay beside him.
Without a moment’s hesitation he crossed the four feet between them on his toes, reached over the soldier’s head with both hands, and covered his mouth. He pushed the soldier’s head down and then, pressing his knees against his shoulders, pulled the man’s head back with all his might until he heard vertebrae snap. Instant death.
“Go with God,” he whispered as the soldier’s body twitched one last time and relaxed. Crocker set him down gently, then grabbed the submachine gun.
He ran back to Davis, who asked, “What happened?”
“No time to explain.”
“Where’d you find the weapon?”
“This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to give me two minutes to run around back and climb up the fire escape.”
“Two minutes.”
“We’ll both count off our watches. When you reach two minutes, you’re going to light two of the Molotov cocktails and throw them at the pickups in front of us. Set those babies on fire.”
“Got it.”
“Then you’re going to follow my route, but stop at the front side of the barracks, over there. Wait at the corner. If you hear firing on the second floor of the farthest section, that’s me.”
“You’re taking the weapon with you?”
“That’s correct.”
“It looks ancient. What is it?”
“I believe it’s a PPSh-41. The Soviets manufactured millions of these suckers during World War Two.”
“Will it fire?”
“I hope so.”
“Boss-”
“Listen! If you get an opportunity to surprise a soldier and grab a weapon, do it. Then enter through the front door of the section on our right. You’ll find me on the second floor. When you get close, shout ‘Delta Bravo’ so I know it’s you.”
“And if I’m not able to get a weapon?”
“Wait at the corner of the building, like I told you before. You’ll still have one more cocktail. Use it at your discretion.”