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  “What’s in the other two structures at the back of the compound?” Crocker asked.

  “The one on the right, facing you, contains living quarters for various guards. The one on the left is where al-Ghazi’s chief aide, Hassan, stays. It also houses a dining room and game room.”

  “Are Hassan and al-Ghazi there now?”

  “Hassan is. According to our source, al-Ghazi’s in Sitre.”

  “You have a picture of Hassan?”

  “No.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Older man in his late fifties. About five-seven. Speaks some English.”

  “How many guards should we expect, and are they heavily armed?”

  “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” Smithson answered.

  Crocker said, “That information is critical.”

  “Just a sec.”

  She left and came back a minute later.

  “No more than eight to ten,” Smithson answered. “Usually there are at least a dozen. Tonight is Friday, which is a holy day. Some of the guards have the day off.”

  “How will they be armed?”

  “The usual: AKs, RPGs, grenades, machine guns. But none in the house. According to our source the guards are stationed outside.”

  “Thanks.”

  He felt a buzz of adrenaline as the radar-evading MH-60 Black Hawk stealth helicopter, like the one first used in the bin Laden raid, passed over the dark Mediterranean and entered Libya. A few lights sparkled along the coast and disappeared as they proceeded farther into the desert.

  For some reason, he pictured his old teammate and friend Ritchie in his head. Ritchie had died on a secret mission in Venezuela, the focus of which was another HVT.

  He chased away the memory, replaced by the strange muffled sound produced by the helo. Strange to his ear, because it had been specially modified to dampen rotor noise and reduce infrared signals. The latter accomplished with the help of a high-tech exhaust system that injected fresh air to lessen the aircraft’s heat signals.

  Out the side window, he saw the dark outline of Bravo Two, the second helo with Mancini, Rip, and Chavez aboard, following slightly to their left. The redesigned nose made it look like a blue whale.

  Crocker checked his watch and held up his hand to indicate they were getting close. CT, on the bench across from him, nodded back and started to slip on his gloves, and check his gear for the tenth or eleventh time. Then used gaffer’s tape to secure everything to his combat vest and belt.

  MK141, M18, M32, and M67 grenades…all check. Extra mags for HK416 and SIG Sauer pistol…check. Medical kit, VIP in-flares, SureFire strobe lights, light sticks…check. Quad-tube NVGs…check.

  Akil, next to CT, cool dude that he was, continued bobbing his head to EDM through earphones like they were on their way to a club. Crocker kicked his boot.

  “What?” Akil shouted over the noise from the engine.

  “Check your shit!”

  “I don’t need to.…As long as I’ve got this bad boy, I’m good.” He patted the German-made MP7 with Airsoft suppressor clenched between his knees.

  The SOAR Night Stalker pilot’s voice came through the bone phone taped along his cheekbone. “Deadwood One-Zero, Bravo Alpha here. Five minutes to ready. Ten minutes to launch.”

  “Copy, Bravo Alpha.”

  “Godspeed down there.”

  “We’ll see you in a few. You want us to get you a falafel sandwich?”

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  The helo banked sharply left, then eased right as it circled around the back of the compound. Crocker took a series of deep breaths. With each beat of his heart, time seemed to slow. The helo turned abruptly and started its descent.

  Fifty feet, forty, thirty, bouncing. Hovered at twenty. He exhaled fully and the cabin light illuminated, turning Akil’s bearded face green.

  “Go! Let’s go!” he shouted.

  Akil and CT were already on their feet, boots thumping on the metal floor. The hatch opened. Warm desert air filled his lungs. His nose picked up a hint of frankincense mixed with exhaust.

  Akil took the rope first. Then CT. He slipped his NVGs in place, grabbed the rope with both hands, and jumped.

  Touched the ground, knees bent, as the helo engine whined higher and faded. He loved the synchronicity of machines and men moving together, the thrill of being on their own in enemy territory.

  Mancini’s husky voice came through the earbuds. “Deadwood, all clear, section two.”

  Crocker was pleased his teammate’s foot had healed quickly and he was good to go. “Big Wolf, section one clear. Deploy to vector two-zero and wait.”

  “Copy, Deadwood.”

  Crocker raised his arm—the prearranged signal to deploy. Akil split off left. He and CT circled the compound wide right over sand, dirt, and rubble, lights from several adjacent properties in the distance glowing light-green through his NVGs.

  He noted that there was scant ambient light and barely any from the sliver of new moon, which hung beyond the compound like a crooked smile.

  All good.

  A breeze stirred, whipping sand across his chest. In a crouch, they came in close along the concrete wall and directly under the northwest tower up front. His heart thumping hard, Crocker waited for the signal from Akil, before he turned the corner to look for targets.

  A moment of silence passed before all hell broke loose.

  “Now!” his teammate’s whisper came through his earbuds. Seconds later, Crocker heard something crash into a vehicle parked in front of the gate. The shatter of glass. A man shouting a warning. Men running.

  Trying to decipher the sounds, he raised his left arm to CT, and with the suppressed 416 in his right, turned and immediately started picking out targets—a bearded man with an AK. Down! Another militiaman with a cigarette in his mouth, ripped across the chest.

  He watched them fall, heard the sound of more rounds like loud spitting. Boots pounding the ground. Taking in dozens of impressions in split seconds—the tower above them silent so far, two technicals parked near the gate, militants running for cover.

  CT pointed to the technicals, as if to say, What about them?

  Crocker held up a hand. Wait.

  No need to rush things. Wait for events to unfold in a Zen warrior way, and react.

  The right move always presented itself…until it didn’t and your ticket was punched.

  “Romeo…Gate clear!” Akil said urgently through the radio.

  The three of them met at the gate. Huddled. CT had strips of C-4 ready. They weren’t needed, as Akil indicated with a wave of his hand and a sideways grin.

  Crocker relayed to the other team leader, Mancini. “In, Big Wolf! We’re in! Sector One.”

  “Copy, Deadwood.”

  They crouched behind the inside wall as the M33s CT tossed into the technicals detonated and lit up the sky. Debris rained down, then Akil ran to the back corner of the house and covered the two structures in back until the three operators from Alpha-2 arrived.

  Meanwhile, Crocker and CT went for the front door, which was locked. A little C-4 punched it open. Crocker ducked in first and hurled himself left as bullets rained down from the second floor. Somersaulted sideways through an archway into a large room and took up position behind a wall, with an upholstered chair behind him. A PlayStation on the seat.

  Smithson had said to expect little resistance inside the house. Wrong! Now another shooter joined in and pinned Crocker. He wanted this over fast.

  “Two-four.…Two-four.”

  Where the fuck is CT?

  “Deadwood here. Two-four…come in!”

  He heard the crackle of AKs firing outside as he loaded a grenade into the XM320 launcher on the rail of his 416.

  Whoosh…Bam!!

  It tore into a balcony above the staircase. Plaster and part of the rail tumbled down. A man screamed, “Allah.…Allahu akbar!” as Crocker loaded another round and fired.

  Boom!!!
>
  Take that!

  He jumped to his feet, paused to fire a third grenade, AK rounds glancing off the tile floor and tearing into the walls. Hurried through the living room, into another room, and a kitchen, to another set of steps. His heart pounded in his throat.

  “Deadwood, two-four.…” It was CT.

  “Two-four, Deadwood. Where are you?” Crocker asked as he heard more firing from the balcony and men calling to one another in Arabic. He took the stairs two at a time, his weapon ready.

  “Deadwood, I’m stuck in front. More militants coming through the gate! Need support.”

  A quick call to Mancini. “Big Wolf, can you respond?”

  “Boss.…”

  He almost ran into a man in a white robe looking behind him as he hurried down the steps. Crocker couldn’t tell from this angle if he was Abu Omar or maybe Hassan. All he knew is that the dude held a pistol in his left hand, and started to raise it when he saw Crocker and opened his mouth to gasp.

  Keeping in mind the instructions from Smithson and Anders, he turned the 416 around and drove the butt stock into the man’s chest. Heard bones snap and saw the man’s bare feet go out from under him, and his head hit a step. Knocked him out cold.

  Crocker slapped the pistol out of his hand. Checked quickly to see if the dude had a pulse. He did.

  Fuck, he said to himself. This is taking too much time!

  Gun battles raged at the front and back of the house. Akil, on right corner, facing the back wall, raised his MP7 and cut down a militant who made a dash for a Humvee with a .50-cal machine gun in back. The bearded jihadist was so jacked on something he kept coming even though Akil had shredded his torso. He quickly reloaded as the militant fell face forward a few meters from his feet, close enough that he could see the blood seeping out of the hole in his back.

  “Need support…at the…” someone shouted into his earbuds as bullets whizzed toward him and ricocheted off the bricks to his left.

  “Who? Who? What location?”

  Akil was confused. He spit the dirt out of his mouth, took cover farther down the wall. Used the cover of a smoke grenade that someone had tossed to dart right and climb into the desert camo–painted Humvee.

  “Big Wolf. Romeo here…Who needs support?”

  Part of his brain waited for a name. The rest of it focused on getting into the turret and looking for an ammo box. Found a full one. Shit operational security, but his good luck.

  An incendiary grenade slammed into the one-story structure forty meters in front of him and exploded. Militants started running out, firing wildly, and shouting. Bullets glanced off the metal shield around the turret like crazed bees.

  Akil lifted the ammo in place, fed the belt into the chamber, quickly rotated the turret with the crank on the left, cocked the action, gripped the handles, and started firing. The .50 rattled and clanged like a mofo, but ripped the militants apart.

  Power surged from the .50 into his chest. Jihadists screaming and falling, his forearms shaking, he cracked the turret and focused on the front door of the structure to his left. Fired and tore the door apart until only fragments of wood hung from the hinges.

  Sweet!

  “Romeo, hold your fire! Hold! It’s Big Wolf. Look left!”

  Saw Mancini at the other side of the backyard, raising his left hand to indicate he stop shooting.

  Akil raised his fist back. Understood.

  Both structures turned silent. Dust and smoke hung in the air. He took a deep breath and kept watch as Mancini and Tiny Chavez went in to clear the building on the left. Came out a minute later leading two militants with their hands over their heads. The taller one had a stream of blood from his nose down to the front of his white robe.

  That’s when he heard CT screaming in the radio. “Two-four! Two-four. Situation critical. Need help at the gate!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The ethical warrior must avoid getting crushed between falling in love with the power and thrill of destruction and death dealing and falling into the numbness of the horror.

  —Karl Marlantes, What It Is Like to Go to War

  Crocker pushed through the smoke-filled darkness on the second floor toward the front of the house. Reached the stairway balcony, which looked like a couple maniacs had gone at it with sledgehammers. Saw a dead man sprawled against the wall, his left arm up above his head like he was reaching for something. Part of his right shoulder and chest were missing. Spotted a second militant halfway down the stairs dressed in a t-shirt and underpants, his Kalashnikov held high like he’d watched too many action movies.

  Had to make a quick read if it was Abu Omar or wasn’t. The jihadist moved like a young man, paused and started to turn. Wasn’t Omar in Crocker’s opinion. He aimed and raked the man across the chest.

  The terrorist fell, glanced off the railing, and slammed into a potted plant on the ground floor. The house turned quiet; dust and smoke gently settled.

  “Two-four, Deadwood. Report.”

  CT responded, “All good, DW. Need help up front. Took out several militants coming in the gate. Machine gun fire coming from guard tower one.”

  He wanted to ask, Why gunfire from the tower now and not before? But stopped himself. Wasn’t important. Besides, he had already turned back and was entering the first bedroom. A dirty mattress on the floor with a laptop beside it. Otherwise empty except for some framed Islamic scripture on the wall; nothing in the closets. Slipped the laptop and some thumb drives into the bag on his combat belt.

  The other front bedroom was completely bare except for a barbell in the corner and a flat-screen propped against the wall. Grabbed a handful of DVDs, stuffed them in the sack. Then turned with his 416 ready, and hurried toward the back of the house.

  Twelve minutes.…

  Somebody was trying to communicate through the radio, but the voice was garbled.

  “Two-four, Deadwood. You copy? You hear me?”

  No answer.

  Women’s stuff filled the rear right bedroom. He saw a white bed, a framed painting of a unicorn on the wall, white phone, journal, glass bottles of perfume all through his NVGs. Probably cost a fortune at some mall in Dubai. Slipped the phone and journal into the sack on his belt—could be useful—cleared the closet and bathroom. Empty. Looked like no one had been here in weeks.

  Quickly checked the timer on his watch. The Black Hawks were scheduled to land in six minutes if he didn’t call them off.

  “Big Wolf, Deadwood here. We’re fourteen minutes in. Six minutes to exfil. Gotta wrap this up. Respond!”

  Again, no answer.

  The last bedroom, the one Smithson said belonged to al-Ghazi, was a total mess. Radios in the corner, papers scattered everywhere, the king-sized bed disheveled, mattress…warm.

  He’s here…somewhere.

  Crocker hurried down the back steps to check on the man he’d encountered there. Breathing, but unconscious, blood gurgled through broken teeth. He pulled off the black cap he was wearing. The man had a full head of close-cropped white hair.

  It’s not Abu Omar.

  Snapped three quick photos, and then pumped two rounds into his head.

  Sorry.…

  Eighteen minutes.…They were running out of time. He dashed for the back door, when he heard a tremendous firing outside and to his left. Ducked his head behind the window.

  Who the hell is that?

  Seconds later, he heard Mancini through the radio. “Big Wolf here. We got a man down! Man down!”

  “Where? Where?”

  “Left front! Left…” The rest was garbled.

  Crocker kicked through the back door. Saw that the fighting had subsided in back. Light from the moon reflected off shell casings on the ground. Smoke drifted out of the structure along the back right wall. He turned toward a continuous rip of automatic fire and went down.

  It wasn’t his men. They didn’t waste ammo like that.

  From the rear corner of the house, he looked ahead and quickly appraise
d the situation. Two team members pinned behind a four-foot cement planter alongside the house. Another sprawled on the ground. Militants firing multiple machine guns from the guard tower, front left corner.

  Not good.

  “Big Wolf, Deadwood. That you behind the planter?”

  “Check.”

  “Who’s been hit?”

  “Rip.”

  “Hold on.”

  Fighting to not lose his cool, he unleashed a salvo at the guard tower, and decided to circle around the house for a better angle. As he did, he ran into Akil pushing a Humvee backward on the cement driveway toward the front of the house.

  “Boss!”

  “What the fuck.…”

  “Help me!”

  Soon as he saw the .50 cal he intuited the rest. Lowered his shoulder and pushed with Akil until the Humvee reached the front driveway and militants from the gate and guard tower started directing their fire at them. Crocker jumped in the driver’s seat and applied the hand brake as Akil climbed into the turret.

  “I hope this baby functions.”

  “Do I look stupid?”

  Akil grinned and started firing. Screamed, “Say hello to my little friend!”

  Crocker couldn’t help smiling in spite of the fact that fire from the tower slammed into the hood and windshield and glanced off the pavement. Death and mayhem dancing all around him, he took cover behind one of the front wheels, aimed his 416, and returned fire.

  Fucking Akil.…

  It had ended much quicker than he’d anticipated. The .50 cal had literally torn the guard tower apart, causing several jihadists to fall and hit the ground, where Akil and Crocker applied the coups de grâce. Now they were hustling out the gate toward the SOAR Black Hawks waiting in a dry riverbed approximately two hundred meters away. Crocker ran awkwardly because he was holding the back end of the medical litter with Rip on it. Basically a heavy-duty PVC tarp with a torso-stabilizing strap and nylon web loop handles. Not ideal under current conditions.

  Looking back to see if they were being followed, he shouted, “Hurry!” His arms and shoulder barking.