He had one objective at the moment: the man on the other side of the door. According to his screen, the guard was two and a half feet away, only a one inch slab of wood separating them.
He had little choice but to permit Fahad’s participation: although he had strong suspicions, he had no proof. With a force of four against eleven, they had a chance of success. With three the odds dropped significantly. DeSantos had to trust him.
But not completely. He had texted Rodman and asked him to make sure Fahad’s regular cell phone and satphone were monitored. If he made a call to anyone other than the three members of his team, they were to be notified immediately.
It was enough fighting eleven men; he did not need one of his own working against them.
DeSantos knew from the infrared imagery that the guards were armed with what looked to be AK-47s. They probably also had small arms and even bladed weapons. The objective was for him, and his team, to strike unexpectedly. And fast. It took time and effort to move a heavy submachine gun toward an enemy. Too much time in close quarters combat — which is what this would be. Plus, they were likely not expecting an incursion and, despite what he told Vail, even if they were their best fighters, he did not know their specific level of training. They might shoot well at fifty yards, but did they practice weekly? Did they practice home invasion scenarios? Using his SOG SEAL seven-inch knife, he scraped the exterior surface of the door. Lightly, at first.
No response.
Again, a little more deeply.
Footstep. Hand on the knob. Creak of the hinge as it opened.
DeSantos tossed a small rock to his right. It rustled the leaves of a bush and the guard stepped out onto the cement stoop. The AK-47 was slung across the man’s shoulder, gripped sloppily in his right hand, pointed at the ground.
DeSantos swung the double-serrated blade backhanded through the moist, cool air and struck the man in the left kidney. He stiffened and opened his mouth to scream but DeSantos slapped his fingers over his lips.
He yanked the knife out and stabbed again, this time a vicious, fast jab to the right side of the man’s spine. He struck bone and went through it. The man’s legs went limp and DeSantos put him down with a final strike to the throat so he would not make a noise that would give away his position.
DeSantos yanked him into the foliage, stepped over the bloodied concrete, and into the house.
Vail made her way to the southeast side of the house. She had approached as DeSantos advised her, along the plant line and staying clear of gravel, keeping on grass wherever possible to avoid making unwanted noise. She moved slowly but deliberately and was successful in not setting off the motion sensors.
She stood at the front door for a moment and heard only the crashing rumble of ocean waves. It was unnerving. The satellite imagery showed her mark — a soldier standing rock-still, a foot away, guarding the entrance to the home. Adrenaline flooded her bloodstream and her hands felt unsteady. She wiped her palms on the back of her pants and took a long, cleansing breath.
DeSantos’s face flashed through her thoughts as he leaned forward and looked her in the eye. “I need to know if you can handle yourself.”
I’ve stormed buildings, jumped out of helicopters, and parachuted from the back of a military jet. I can do this too.
Vail shoved the phone in her pocket and brought a fist up to knock.
This man is a killer. Kill or be killed. Kill or be killed.
She rapped lightly on the wood surface. The door immediately swung open and a large male stood there, angular face with close-cropped dark hair and wearing a uniform with the unmistakable green/yellow/black logo of al Humat.
A submachine gun was balanced against his right forearm. His hand relaxed and the barrel dipped slightly when he saw a woman standing at the door. Not much of a threat.
Vail did not hesitate: she spoke the words Uzi coached her to say in Arabic—“I have an urgent message for Kadir from Doka”—and handed him a note. When he reached out to take it she stepped forward and thrust her long Tanto blade into his midsection, an uppercut designed to miss the ribcage. It sliced through as if she had cut into Jell-O. She yanked the handle left and right, severing the abdominal aorta.
The fighter’s eyes bulged wide and his torso bent forward in shock. Or pain. He dropped the AK-47 as his head jerked back. He grabbed her throat with a broad, thick hand and squeezed with surprising strength.
Don’t panic, Karen. He’s bleeding out.
Kill or be killed.
She gave the Tanto a final jerk back and forth and then grabbed it with both hands and yanked it up and down, sawing in and out.
Three long seconds later the man’s eyelids fluttered closed and he collapsed into her, releasing his hold on her neck. She stepped aside and helped him down to the shiny granite entryway.
Vail used her left Timberland boot to roll him over. She stuck her foot on his abdomen and extracted the Tanto, then gave it a quick wipe on his pants — her black 5.11s were now smeared maroon with blood.
She moved to her right into an expansive living room whose walls featured a large representation of the al Aqsa mosque in relief, alongside the Dome of the Rock, which was covered with what looked like real gold leaf — just like the actual building. She knelt behind a needlepoint upholstered chair to consult the drone’s infrared imagery. Four men were down, which meant that Uzi, DeSantos, and Fahad were also successful. That still left an unspecified number of security personnel — two outside the room and maybe three guards and two tangos inside the room.
Vail slipped the Tanto back into its sheath and removed her Glock. A round was chambered, so it was ready to go. At this point stealth was no longer an option — nor was it necessary. All the men were on the same floor: the basement.
Judging by her team’s movement — they were all closing in on the room — she was the last to dispose of her assigned target. But she resisted the urge to move too quickly. Although she had only seventy-five seconds until the guard’s scheduled check-in, the last thing they needed was for any of them to be discovered now, before they were all in position.
A minute later, with time winding down, she had descended two floors and stood on the landing, a few feet from the mouth of a long hallway. Approximately thirty feet down the cement corridor was another al Humat officer. He was likely keeping watch at the door to the large room behind him, where an important business transaction was occurring.
Vail leaned her back against the wall and waited for the text from DeSantos. It came seconds later:
count to ten then go
She shoved the satphone in her front pocket and took a breath, hands wrapped around the Glock’s polymer handle. Seven, six, five, four …
72
Uzi and DeSantos faced the second door to the basement bunker, where Sahmoud and Rudenko were likely located. They were ninety degrees from the main entrance, where Vail’s target was stationed.
“I like your new uniform,” DeSantos said of Uzi’s al Humat black shirt with embroidered patches depicting the organization’s logo.
“He wasn’t all that bad for a terrorist. He gave me the shirt off his back.”
This was by design — Uzi would engage the guard with his hands rather than his knife — in case they needed an intact uniform.
They had thirty seconds before the scheduled check-in with the security booth officer was due — assuming they kept to their schedule. According to the logbook Uzi had seen, they were punctual.