his NVGs, and the glare dug into his eyes like spikes. Temporarily blinded, and completely vulnerable, he fired the Mossberg in the direction of the last noise, then jacked another round and fired slightly to the left, and then another slightly to the right before scrambling for cover under the truck.
With his ears and eyes all ruined for the short term, he rolled again to the far side of the vehicle and whatever cover it could provide. He was sickeningly aware that a stray bullet through one of the containers inside the truck would render a gunfight moot. Blinking rapidly, frantically, to erase the white blur on his retinas and regain some semblance of night vision, he moved toward the front of the barn. Until his senses returned, or until he knew where his opponent was, his only chance lay in his ability to keep moving.
But the same rules applied to his enemy. Sure, he no doubt looked away and shielded his vision from the erupting flare, but even now, as his eyes adjusted, Jonathan would still be invisible on the far side of the light. To get a bead, the attacker would have to cross to Jonathan’s side of the truck.
Would it be from the right or the left? He backed off from the truck to open up his peripheral vision, and to see the front door, in case the gunman pulled a fast one and tried to make a straight run for it. Two steps more and he was flat against the cowling of the tractor, directly under the overhang of the…loft!
He more sensed than heard the second attacker over his head. Maybe it was an errant shadow cast by the illumination flare, or maybe it was a creaking board, or maybe even a sixth sense, but in a flash, he realized where the next attack was coming from. He raised the shotgun to a vertical position and pulled the trigger, but the man dropped onto him in time to be inside the sawed-off barrel. The powder and flash got them both though, singeing Jonathan’s eyebrows and raising a welt on his cheek. The attacker fell over the cowling of the tractor, but he never really lost his balance, landing on his feet in a power stance with — in less time than it took to aim a pistol-and he slashed at the attacker’s weapon hand, severing tendons and nerves in his wrist and causing him to drop the Beretta onto the floor. He took a step closer to the man and slashed in a wide arc up his belly and across his throat. In the shadows cast by the flare, the erupting fan of blood appeared black. The man fell like a stone.
Jonathan whirled for a second attack, but nothing happened.
“Dig, are you okay?” It was Boxers, calling from the other side of the door. “I’m coming in.”
“Box, no-”
The big man dove through the door and to the right, just as his boss had done a few minutes before. “Did you get him already?”
“Not all of them.”
“You look like hell. Was that Ivan?”
Jonathan shook his head and pointed to a spot along Boxers’ wall, toward the back of the building. He let the Mossberg fall back against its sling, and traded out for the M4 again. Facing this direction, he didn’t have to worry about accidentally hitting the truck.
The two of them moved as one, as they had so many times in the past, in so many foreign lands, Boxers high and to the right, Digger low and to the left.
Boxers saw it first. He rose to his full height and tightened his grip on his rifle. “You in the corner! Don’t move! Not a muscle!”
Jonathan darted ahead to get a glimpse around the corner of the pillar. A man who looked remarkably like the attacker whose throat Jonathan had just cut lay on the floor in a lake of his own blood. Boxers flipped on the tactical light on the muzzle of his rifle, and in the glare, it was easy to see that Jonathan’s snapshot Mossberg blasts had pounded at least five holes in the man’s neck and left shoulder, so large and ragged that he knew they had to be lethal.
Boxers poked the man with his weapon. “Hey, you alive?”
“Feel for a pulse,” Jonathan said.
“I ain’t stickin’ my fingers in that mess.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes. He stepped into the blood and squatted low to lift the wounded man’s chin. His eyes were open and focused, and neither one of them bore the awful scar that defined the man Jonathan wanted most to kill.
“Where’s Ivan?” Jonathan demanded.
The man smiled. Then his eyes lost focus as his life soaked into the filthy floor.
Chapter Twenty-six
The transfer went smoothly. Including Thomas and his parents and all of the surviving attackers, the Blackhawk took off just six minutes after it had touched down with a load of only eight civilians in the cargo bay. For enough money and the right connections, there were confidential solutions to every kind of problem. In about an hour, they’d all be off-loaded at an Army medical facility outside Cincinnati whose physicians and staff were used to providing outstanding medical care to people about whom it was their responsibility to know as little as possible. For Jonathan, access to the network of clandestine medical facilities both domestically and abroad was one of the great perks of his connection to the Unit.
Jonathan watch’m staying,” he said.
Insubordination from Boxers was more startling than sniper fire. “The hell you are,” Jonathan started to say, but he pulled the words back and opted for a softer approach. “It’s the plan,” he said.
“Plans change all the time. I’m not leaving you here to take the heat by yourself.”
Jonathan sighed. “Look, I appreciate the loyalty-”
“Then shut up and send the chopper on its way. We’re running out of time.”
Jonathan stepped around to stare him straight in the eye. Well, straight in the Adam’s apple anyway. “You’re medic trained. You can help the kid and his mom.”
“The bird is full of medics as it is. They don’t need me. I’m not letting you take the fall, Dig.”
“It was my mission, Box. And my fuck-up, and now this is my recovery plan. You’ve done-”
“I’m not going.”
Honest to God, they didn’t have time for this. Jonathan made one last try. “Tell you what. If things go wrong, and they end up taking me to jail, you can lead the mission to get me out.”
Even in the darkness, he could see the sparkle of interest. “Out of a jail here in the U.S.? No way.”
“If it goes that way, I’ll be counting on you.”
Boxers shifted his gaze back to the distance as he considered it. “You know that’s impossible.”
“I know no such thing. Not with you in charge.”
Boxers snorted, “You are so full of shit. What about her?” He nodded to Gail Bonneville, who held both hands to her head, which had obviously not yet cleared of the cobwebs caused by the blast wave of the claymores.
Jonathan smiled. “You know I’m a sucker for a pretty woman.” When he didn’t get the chuckle he was hunting for, he added, “The next call is hers. I made a deal.”
Boxers rose to his full height, gaining a couple of inches as he drew in a deep breath and then let it go as a noisy sigh. “I’m staying,” he said, but as the words came out, he stammered a little. He didn’t make a habit out of saying no to his boss.
Jonathan was stunned. He’d heard excuses before, and objections, but he couldn’t remember the last outright mutiny.
“If we need to break out of anywhere, we’ll do it from the inside,” Boxers said. He let his rifle fall against its sling. “I’ve made up my mind, so don’t bother to say nothin’ more.”
There it was. You didn’t get much less negotiable than that. As the Army chopper piloted by old friends powered up, Jonathan turned his back to the rotor wash and approached a vaguely familiar middle-aged man who looked like he’d been ripped out of bed and shoved into a pair of jeans and a gray sweatshirt. Boxers kept his distance. The newcomer’s expression showed equal parts horror and bewilderment.
“Will Joyce,” Jonathan said, extending a friendly, blood-spattered hand. “Nice to see you again.”
The man’s body didn’t move, but he cocked his head curiously. “Do we know each other?”
“Knowt at a handshake and stuffed his hands in his pockets instead. It was a gesture designed to be nonthreatening. “Only one ground rule before we begin. You either agree to it, or I call that chopper back and I send you home. You can write whatever you want about what you see, but you can’t use any of the names of people that
