One Rough Man

man crumpled on the front lawn of a house across the street, two doors down. I leaned forward to identify the shooter, calling, “Contact — house to the northeast about seventy-five meters away. One man down. Unsure of shooter location.”

Knuckles responded, “Not directed at us. Everyone stay cool. Probably some sort of gang fight or leftover animosity. We don’t want to get dragged into that. Get eyes out three-sixty. Call in to let me know your position.”

Bull called from downstairs, “Two vehicles to the front of the house on the east side. Three men. One man at the vehicle to the north, two men at the vehicle to the south. All are armed and focused on us. They’re using the cars for cover. What’s the call?”

Knuckles came back, cold and calm. “Stand by. Develop the situation. We don’t know if they’re police, criminals, or what. If they display hostile intent, take them out.”

I was about to call my position when a hail of bullets shattered the window to my front. I dropped flat to the floor. “Contact, contact. North side of house. Fire directed at me.”

I rolled to my left, coming up underneath the second window of the room.

I peered out the corner of the window, looking back toward the house with the fallen man. I caught a glimpse of a man jumping out of the back courtyard and sprinting away. Before I could process what I had seen, I caught movement directly below me and refocused. I saw a man crouched and running toward the back courtyard of the house next door. I called Knuckles, raising my H&K at the same time.

“One man, armed, moving toward cover. Not the original shooter from across the street. He’s holding an MP5, not an AK. He’s the guy that shot at me.”

I tracked the guy until he paused at the courtyard wall, preparing to vault over it. I ignored Knuckles’s radio calls, squeezing off three rounds during the split-second pause. The man tumbled down.

“North side’s clear. One squirter from the original house moved north.”

“Roger. Bull, continue to hold fire out front unless they fire first. I don’t want to kill some psycho neighborhood watch. What do we have in the rear?”

The team members covering the back courtyard began to report. The immediate threat gone, I thought about the squirter I had seen. A man with a backpack. Carlos.

I cut in on Knuckles getting status reports. “Break — break. Squirter is the precious cargo. I say again, squirter is PC.”

Knuckles came back immediately. “Still in sight?”

“No,” I said, “he’s running north. I don’t know who these clowns are, but we need to clear out of here quick.”

“Shit… Roger that. All elements, all elements — anyone with a weapon is now designated a hostile force. Engage at will.”

* * *

Lucas heard the first AK-47 rounds and snapped his head toward the sound. He saw the team member at the corner of the house two doors down doing a macabre dance, rounds stitching him throughout his torso. He saw two arms holding an AK out of a second-story window, the weapon rocking back and forth on full automatic. He was momentarily stunned. What the hell is going on? He shook off the confusion, rapidly analyzing his current options. He decided to withdraw. All element of surprise was lost. The police were more than likely on the way. They needed to get the hell out of here.

He keyed his radio to speak but was interrupted by more gunfire erupting out of his sight, on the north side of the target house. He recognized the sound as an MP5.

“Cease fire! Cease fucking fire! Who’s shooting?”

“Sir, it’s Sanford. I had a clear shot at Pike in the target house. I think I got him.”

“I said don’t shoot until I gave the command! Jesus! Everyone listen up. We’re getting out of here. Move back to the—”

Before he could finish, another burst of fire came from the north side of the house. It wasn’t an MP5.

He swore under his breath. This is turning into a fucking debacle. What is it with this guy? He was like a curse.

“All elements check in.”

He saw the driver of the vehicle to his rear give him a thumbs-up, on a knee and covering the house the AK fire had come from. He saw the final man from his vehicle running back across the street from the south of the target house, hearing him in his headset. “This is Copfeld. I’m coming across right now.”

With the dead man shot from the window, and including himself and his driver, he had everyone but Sanford.

“Sanford, this is Lucas. You copy?” He paused and tried again, “Sanford, Sanford, this is Lucas. You copy?”

When Copfeld reached his position he said, “We need to get the fuck out of here. I want you to run back to the other vehicle and get a view down the north side of the house. See if you can find Sanford. Don’t penetrate across the street. If he’s there, get him here. If you don’t see him, he’s on his own. Watch that house to the rear. You understand?”

“Yeah. Give me some cover while I move.”

Lucas grabbed his sleeve before he left. “You do anything different from what I just said, and I’m going to kill you myself.”

Copfeld stumbled back from the ferocity on Lucas’s face. He began running toward the other car as fast as he could. He made it about twenty meters before Lucas saw his head explode and his body crumple to the ground, twitching from the impact of multiple rounds. Lucas had barely registered his death when bullets began slicing the air near him like a buzz saw. What in the hell is inside that house? An army? He immediately collapsed behind his car, trying to make himself as small as possible, the bullets shattering the glass and puncturing the sheet metal all around him. The drivers of both vehicles rolled out, rapidly bringing their weapons to bear on the men shooting from the house.

The fight lasted a total of fifteen seconds. The drivers returned fire to the best of their ability, but couldn’t compete with shooters safely ensconced behind cover. First one, then another fell over as a hail of bullets pummeled their bodies like an invisible meat tenderizer. The other targets gone, the bullets began to focus on Lucas’s specific position, chewing up the concrete of the street, the dirt around him, and the metal of the car. He knew he had seconds to live. He thought about returning fire and going out with his guns blazing, valiantly trying to accomplish the mission. A bullet clipped his arm, making the decision for him. He felt explosive rage at his failure, knowing that Standish had kept vital information from him. Just another retired soldier, my ass. He suppressed his anger, wanting to fight another day. Wanting the chance to bring some pain to the Honorable Harold Standish. He raised his weapon by the barrel and waved it back and forth over the roof of the car. The firing ceased. He stood up, laying the weapon on the roof of the car and raising his hands.

He saw the front door open and two men come out, both holding weapons and scanning the area before running to his location. They drove him facedown into the ground and flex-tied his hands behind his back.

* * *

Bakr ran until his lungs felt like they would burst. He didn’t look back, didn’t attempt to blend in, didn’t try to hide his fear from other pedestrians. He just let his legs churn away, running deeper and deeper into the Bosnian neighborhood. Eventually, he stopped, bent over, his hands on his knees, gasping for air. He heard nobody following. Once again, he was confused by the reaction of the enemy. Why did they never chase him down? They obviously had some method to track him, but continually made blatantly amateur moves whenever they closed in. He could still hear the crackle of gunfire from the direction he had come. What on earth were they shooting at? Were they so pathetic that they would continue shooting an empty building long after he was gone? Was he misreading the whole thing? He couldn’t believe that.

His next move boiled down to two choices: He could attempt to hide here, in Sarajevo, until the heat died down, or he could get out right now. Staying was appealing, since it would allow him to put some thought into his next move, and perhaps come up with a solid plan instead of simply running on a wing and a prayer. On the other hand, he had to assume that the enemy had some method of finding him, since they kept showing up all over the globe, from Guatemala, through Oslo, to here.

He decided he needed to run, to go to the station and get on the first thing leaving, whether that was a train