One Rough Man

No rounds came my way. Instead, the man turned and aimed at the crest of the hill. For the first time I felt the deep thump of rotor blades. A Bell 427 helicopter sliced across the top of the hill, incongruously painted in bright yellow and white, with a logo emblazoned on the side reading Epeius Oil Exploration. The helicopter’s blades bit into the air as it rotated violently, the open door facing the earth. I could see the team inside, held in place by the centrifugal force of the rotation, three holding SR-25 sniper systems at the ready. I couldn’t hear the gunshots due to the rotor blades but saw the muzzles flash, two times each.

“Yeah, motherfuckers. Eat that.”

The helicopter immediately circled around to the other side of the car hiding the single man. He jumped up and began to run, only to be cut down by the precision fire of the men inside, the 7.62 match-grade rounds flying unerringly toward his head as if it was a giant magnet.

Finished shooting what it could see from the air, the helo hovered over the road, its right door sliding open and a man hooking a thick fast-rope to the rescue hoist hanging off the side. Once attached, he threw out a kick bag holding the remaining coils. It fell to earth, the fast-rope snaking out of the bag on the way down. No sooner had the rope hit the ground than men began sliding down it, controlling their descent by hand and foot pressure alone, like a fireman sliding on a pole. One after another they exited the aircraft, until a total of five men were on the asphalt, fanning out and looking for targets.

When the last man hit the ground, the crew chief dropped the rope, allowing it to fall harmlessly to earth. The helicopter banked and flew out of sight.

I stood up, manacled hands in the air, saying, “You got them all.”

The lead man turned, smoothly training his weapon on me. There was no overt threat in the gesture. The weapon simply moved as naturally as if the man were pointing.

I stared, mute at first, before words finally found me.

“Holy shit, Knuckles?”

93

Knuckles was trying very hard to remain serious, but he couldn’t stop a giant grin from creeping over his face.

“Hello, Pike. Seems like I’m always bailing you out of trouble.”

I was grinning like a schoolboy, too, but I didn’t give a shit. “Hey, Knuckles. It’s really good to see you.”

Knuckles came over while the rest of the men fanned out, clearing the immediate area and searching the dead men and vehicles.

I stuck both of my cuffed hands out for a handshake, which Knuckles ignored. Instead he gave me a powerful embrace.

He held my shoulders. “It’s really good to see you too. Alive, I mean.”

“Man, you ain’t lying. Ten more seconds and you’d be scraping us off the street.”

“Who’s the babe?”

Jennifer scowled, but I knew Knuckles was just kidding, trying to figure out what was going on.

“This is Jennifer Cahill, my partner in crime.”

Knuckles smiled warmly, disarming her anger, and shook her hand.

I asked, “How in the hell did you get here so quick? I tripped my beacon less than an hour ago.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “It caused us to shit our pants. We were alerted by Kurt a day and a half ago. We’re over in Tunis, doing ‘Oil Exploration.’ ”

Knuckles raised his hands, making quotation marks.

“We were told simply to get our ass to Tuzla with the total package and link up with you. We got to Sarajevo this morning from Italy, refueled, and were heading in to Tuzla when your beacon went off. We homed in on it and saw the gunfight going on down here. The beacon wasn’t precise enough to tell us who was who on the ground, so we paged you.”

I couldn’t believe how close we had come to dying. I’ve used up my luck for the rest of my life. Or maybe it wasn’t luck.

One of the men came up with the keys to the handcuffs on my wrists. I gave him an embrace as well, like it was old home week. I waved in the direction the chopper had left.

“What’s up with the helo? That’s new.”

Knuckles grinned. “Yeah, we got that since you left. It’s a Bell 427. State of the art. You know the motto of the Taskforce—‘Money’s no object.’ Anyway, we were tracking your favorite guy over in Tunis and about to pull the trigger when we got the redirect to here.”

He paused, looking around at the battle site they had just entered.

“Enough about my story. What in the hell is going on here? Who are these guys?”

“I have no idea about the assholes here, but there’s a terrorist in Tuzla that needs to be killed. We gotta get moving.”

One of the men hollered at Knuckles, standing over the driver Jennifer had beaten into submission. He was awake and scared.

“Hey,” I said, “I forgot about him. I guess there is someone who can tell us what’s going on.”

I pulled Jennifer out of earshot of the other men.

“Listen, I need you to get into the car across the street. Sit in the back and close the doors.”

She looked at me warily. “Why? What are you going to do?”

“Well, I’m not asking you to leave because I’m going to make him take his clothes off.”

“Pike… are you sure? I don’t think this is right.”

“Jennifer, he told me in the car that he blinded Ethan’s daughter. You don’t have to like it, but I’m going to make him tell me what’s going on.”

Jennifer’s eyes widened, but she stood firm. “And then you’re going to do what? Kill him? Just like that? In cold blood?”

“We don’t have time for this. Carlos is still running loose.”

“I get that, Pike, I really do, but I don’t want you to kill him. You’ll be just like him. You’ll become him. Is that what you want?”

Can’t she see he deserves to die? I thought about what had happened today. Who was alive and who was dead. And the gift. Shit. Maybe she’s right. “Okay, look, I won’t kill him. Just get in the car.”

Jennifer hesitated, then jogged away to the car without looking back.

Knuckles and I walked to the man on the ground, now sitting up and staring at us, fear radiating off of him, his face swollen and bloody from where Jennifer had kicked the shit out of him.

I squatted down to his level, tapping his forehead with the barrel of my Glock. “Hey, tough guy. Didn’t quite work out like you wanted, did it?”

He began babbling instantly. “Don’t kill me. I’ll tell you everything I know, but I swear, it isn’t much. I’m just a contractor for a company called Trident Global Threat Analysis. Please…”

“Trident Threat Analysis, huh? How original. Let me guess, you’re a SEAL.”

The man nodded.

The Trident was the nickname given to the badge awarded after successfully completing Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL, the arduous selection and training course that produced the Navy SEALs. Not too hard to figure out.

“How about that,” I said to Knuckles. “He’s a fuckin’ retard. I can’t believe a SEAL came that close to killing me.”

Knuckles, an ex-member of SEAL Team Six, chuckled and said, “Maybe we should cut him a break for choosing the right branch of service.”

“He’s on the team that tortured and killed Ethan’s family.”

Knuckles’s smile faded. “Maybe you should let me take a crack at him.”

I returned to the driver, staring into his eyes, conveying no mercy. “Maybe I will. Depends on my man here.