Kafer’s voice filled his ear. “Rook, RP-One here. Do you he—”
Rook muted his earbud as the sound for which Kafer had broken radio silence for struck his ears. Still distant, the deep bass staccato was easily identifiable as not one but several approaching helicopters.
Big ones.
TWENTY-SEVEN
El Calvario, Colombia
UNDER THE COVER of darkness, Queen and her team of operators watched the small mountainside town of El Calvario through night vision goggles. Few lights remained on and many of those bore the telltale flicker of television sets. The town was at rest. And when they woke in the morning, two of them would be missing. But despite the town’s quiet demeanor, it bore the scars of a violent past, most recently as the epicenter for a magnitude 5.9 earthquake in 2008. Six people had died. Hundreds more were injured. But the buildings in town took the brunt of the damage. Those that had collapsed remained so and many others, including the tall yellow church, had cracked walls or bent frames.
The two men—the last speakers of Tinigua—had been citizens of El Calvario since they were born. The first, Edmundo Forero, was born sixty-nine years previous and was the oldest resident in town. The second man, Tavio Cortes, born sixty-four years ago, had been a neighbor of Edmundo’s, and as a result picked up the language that he and his mother spoke. The language that now only the two of them knew.
The challenge for Queen and her team was that despite being close friends, Edmundo and Tavio now lived on opposite sides of town, which wasn’t just a matter of horizontal distance, but also vertical. El Calvario’s main drag rose straight up the mountainside at an amazingly steep angle. The obvious choice was to split the team in two, taking both men at the same time. But Queen had seen more than a few bullet holes in buildings and knew the area had seen some violent unrest. Despite the gross exaggerations about Colombia being a haven for terrorists and drug runners, these elements did exist in the fringes of civilization, and the town had clearly seen some firefights in its past. What made this a challenge for the team was that people who experienced violent events tended to prepare for the next encounter.
Queen’s team moved as one. Like a black-clad anaconda stalking its prey in the darkness, they moved in a fast single-file line, weaving through the tight alleys between the turquoise and white homes. They gathered beneath the tall stilts supporting their target’s back porch. While three men kept watch below the porch, two more followed Queen up the stairs.
Queen, along with QP-One and -Two, huddled by the back door for a moment while she picked the lock. Once inside, she drew a tranquilizer gun and moved through the home, heading for the living room where the TV flickered. Just as she hoped, Edmundo lay asleep in a reclined chair, a beer in one hand, a cigarette burned to the nub in the other.
“Bastard is lucky to still be alive,” QP-Two said.
Queen took aim and shot him in the chest. The old man’s eyes launched open, wrinkling the flat, leathery brown skin of his forehead. He stood, saw their black masks and night vision goggles, and before he had time to fully register what he’d seen, fell face forward into Queen’s arms. She handed him to QP-One and -Two, who carried him outside and down the steps to where the others still waited.
As Queen walked down the steps, she activated her throat microphone and spoke. “Queen here. Edmundo Forero is ours. En route to second target.”
“Copy that, Queen,” came the voice of Dominick Boucher, who was sitting in for Deep Blue until he was able to free himself from the media shit storm.
“Out,” she said before disconnecting. With a quick hand signal she motioned for the team to move and they were off again, working their way through the town with Edmundo in tow. As hoped, the old man’s light frame combined with the downward climb allowed them to move just as quickly.
Reaching the bottom of the hill, they stopped at the edge of the main street. Tavio’s home, and their LZ, lay on the other side. But before they could make a move, a loud car engine roared at the top of the street. It was followed by the squeal of braking tires and the shouts of men. While the team fell back, Queen chanced a look up the mountain road and saw three jeeps, large machine guns mounted on each, and fifteen armed men flooding into Edmundo’s home.
Ducking into the shadows, she activated her throat mic again. “Mission has been compromised. Local authorities were tipped off.”
She didn’t wait for a reply before switching off and prepping her UMP submachine gun. She suspected they wouldn’t escape without a fight. A second set of engines, coming from below, confirmed her fears. She turned to the Delta team behind her and pointed to Edmundo. “Leave him and be ready to haul ass.”
The old man was placed on the ground were he would sleep peacefully through the chaos that would soon add more scars to the town.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Rome, Italy
THREE MISSISSIPPI!
Pierce stood, bolted out and around the debris they’d been hiding behind, raised his fist, aimed, and threw the only punch he was sure he’d get to make. Aiming was difficult in the darkness, but he saw the silhouette of a head and tried to direct his fist just below. Strike the throat … strike the throat … strike the—contact.
The impact was solid, knuckles on bone.
Not a soft throat.
And it took all of Pierce’s self-control to not shout out in pain. His fist ached and his arm tingled. But he had made contact.
A dull thud sounded as the attackee collapsed at his feet.
Pierce’s adrenaline surged as he realized he’d taken the guard out with a single punch to the head. For a moment he understood the rush King must feel when on a mission. Then King’s flashlight clicked on revealing the man he had attacked.
He was young and unconscious, dressed in a pink dress shirt, holding a black dress coat in his flaccid arms.
Not a guard.
The light drifted toward the body at Pierce’s feet. When he saw the face, he stepped back with a hand to his mouth. “Oh God.”
King moved to the pretty young woman and checked her pulse. She was alive, which was good for her and his friend’s psyche. “She’s alive,” he said, then took her by the arms. “Get the guy.”
They dragged the couple who’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time behind the remains of the temple’s interior walls. King could see Pierce was distracted over hitting the woman. “It had to be done,” King said. “If you didn’t do it, I would have.”
“So this was a ‘can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs’ situation?”
King nodded. “Sometimes you have to be a bad parent to be a good parent.”
Pierce let out a quiet “Huh” as a memory of King’s sister returned. “Julie used to say that.”
With a grin, King said, “So did my dad.”
Pierce looked at his fist with a grin. “It was a good punch.”
King clapped him on the shoulder. “Would have made Jules proud.”
They both fought against laughing. They both knew that Julie had been a strident feminist who believed men and women should be treated equally in every way, including combat. Which is why she worked so hard to defy the system and become a fighter pilot. She really would have been proud.
King led him back to the northwest corner of the temple. To the north and east they could see the security guards closing in on their location—flashlights giving away their positions. King knelt down and motioned to where they’d hid the bodies. “They’re here for them.”