slipped though muscle and cartilage.
The knife slid back to its Kydex sheath with a positive click as Quinn advanced, a red palm print on his khakis where he’d wiped his left hand. The M4 back at eye level, he scanned the room for his next target.
The cameraman twitched on the floor behind him, no longer a threat.
Five feet away, a masked Iraqi who’d been in the process of reading a statement for the camera staggered backward in surprise. He tripped over a startled hostage to fall toward the left side of the room.
“ Allahu akbar! ” he shouted, before two rounds from Thibodaux’s M4 tore his throat away.
Quinn’s rifle spat and a tall Iraqi behind the two kneeling hostages stumbled forward, dropping his AK-47. The teenager who’d been posted with the 50-caliber machine gun, badly wounded by Diaz’s withering fire from below, poked his head over a row of sandbags in the far corner. He made a feeble attempt to fire a pistol.
Thibodaux bounced a grenade off the back wall into the makeshift bunker and turned the kid to jelly. The sandbags directed the blast upward, away from everyone else, but the noise was deafening.
Flanking each blade-wielding executioner, two more insurgents brought long guns to bear as they shook off the effects of the concussion.
Quinn breathed in the smell of cordite and blood, swinging his rifle methodically, resting the glowing red circle on the M4’s EOTech holographic sight on the chest of one target, squeezing the trigger twice, then moving to the next a half a heartbeat later. He had no doubt Thibodaux was doing the same. If Marines were anything, they were expert riflemen.
All the gun-wielding insurgents in his area of responsibility DRT, Quinn rushed forward to get a better angle on the one with the blade, who’d now grabbed the nearest hostage by the collar and used him as a shield.
The young prisoner was difficult to identify through the filth that caked his face and grimy brown T-shirt, but his high-and-tight haircut above the duct tape blindfold made Quinn guess he was the missing Marine.
He fought like a Marine.
The hostage gave a muffled yell beneath his gag and pushed himself backward, rolling over the top of his assailant. Spinning as he rolled, he kicked out with bare feet, connecting with a satisfying thud to the masked Iraqi’s ribs. Enraged and still screaming under his duct tape, the young Marine lashed out blindly, legs pumping as if he were riding a bicycle. The Iraqi shifted away to avoid another blow, giving Jericho enough room to put two rounds below his left ear.
“Clear!” Thibodaux shouted through gray curls of gun smoke and settling dust. His weapon still pressed close to his shoulder, tree-trunk arms tucked tight as he scanned the room.
Jericho did the same.
“I’m a friendly!” Corporal Diaz warned as he came through the door behind them. He blinked in dismay at the nine dead Iraqi’s that littered the room. “Holy shit, Gunny! You guys done already?”
“Roger that,” Thibodaux said. He’d let the M4 fall against the sling on his chest and now knelt above the bound Marine. He cut the young man free and offered him a badly needed sip of water from the CamelBak attached to his ballistic vest. “What’s your name, son?”
The young Marine stretched his jaw muscles, unaccustomed to being free of the duct tape. “Corporal Lark, Gunnery Sergeant. I got separated from my platoon two days ago. My buddy got shot and I woke up half beat to death with my hands tied.” His entire body shook from relief and adrenaline.
Quinn tugged the tape away from the other hostage’s mouth and eyes. This one was older than the Marine by at least fifteen years, with thinning blond hair and a scraggly goatee-one of the missing contractors.
“I thought I’d never see Americans again,” the man said, his voice shaking. He blinked in dismay as his tearful eyes adjusted to the light. “You killed them all.” He swallowed hard when, for the first time, he looked to the floor and saw the tiny knife that had been meant to cut his head off.
The contractor hung his head between his knees and vomited.
Diaz looked impatiently at his watch and tapped the toe of his boot against the wooden floor, which was now awash with pools of blood and bits of Iraqi insurgent.
“We should haul ass, Gunny,” he said. “Been here too long alre-”
As if to punctuate the urgency of the corporal’s plea, a mortar round screamed in from the darkness smashing into the side of the building. The sandbag bunker in the corner exploded in a flash of light and yellow smoke. Wood and sand flew through the room as if sprayed from a hose. A shard of metal from the demolished fifty cal whirred into Diaz like an airborne saw blade. He dropped to his knees, screaming in pain.
“ Cochons! ” The big Cajun’s head jerked up from tending a blood-caked Lark. His eyes bored holes through Quinn. “Rat bastards are givin’ me the red ass! Chair Force, get on the horn and call us some close air support, pronto!”
The gunny rushed to Diaz’s side. The huge piece of shrapnel had hit him below his calf, severing the Achilles tendon and both bones in the lower leg. His foot was attached by only a thin strip of skin.
Thibodaux applied a tourniquet from a pouch on his vest. He shot a worried look at Quinn. “How about that air, beb?”
Another mortar exploded outside. Twisted oilcans flew by the gaping hole in the wall. Like dogs to a dinner bell, insurgents were drawn to the sound of American presence.
As soon as Quinn tried the radio, Lt. Colonel Fargo launched into a fulminating volcanic eruption, screaming as if Quinn had single-handedly started the whole Iraqi war. Quinn ignored him. If Fargo wasn’t going to help when they were under direct fire, it was hardly worth the trouble to mount a defense over the radio.
After two calls for help on the open radio net, a patrolling pilot answered. “Copper Three-Zero, this is Psycho bringing my Warthog in from the north. Is that you, G-Man?”
A third mortar whoomped in front of the tire shop, destroying the dead Iraqi cameraman’s rusty Opal. Whirring metal reduced the palm tree across the street to a three-foot stump.
Thibodaux arched massive shoulders over Diaz, shielding him from falling debris. “The sons of bitches got us dialed in for sure now. Tell your flyboys to light a shuck!”
Quinn gave him a grim nod, then turned back to the radio. Psycho was Major Troy Bates, an Academy classmate who’d gone on to fly A-10 Warthogs. “Psycho, this is Copper. That’s affirmative. It’s me all right.” Jericho was careful not to give out much information. Too many bad guys had stolen U.S. communications gear. He already had a price on his head-no point in jacking up the pot.
A hidden fifty-caliber machine gun opened fire from the dark tumble of clay buildings less than half a block away and began to chew up the tire shop.
“Psycho…” Quinn keyed his radio, his voice a taut wire. “We could use that support sooner rather than later. Lt. Colonel Fargo has Echo Company coming back from the northeast and we’re taking fire from our west.” He checked the GPS on his wrist and gave his coordinates.
“I’m cleared hot and I got good eyes on your bad guys,” Psycho said, a half moment later. “Hold your ears, G-Man.”
The Warthog’s GE turbofan engines roared overhead a moment before the GAU 8 nose gun burped with a throaty growl, like a smoker’s cough on steroids. Seventy rounds per second, each roughly the size of a fat carrot, shredded the rooftop insurgents like coleslaw.
Quinn sighed, relaxing for the first time in a week. With an A-10 spitting death from the sky, other bad actors would lay low for a time. “I owe you, Psycho.”
“Yes, you do,” the Warthog pilot came back. “But it’ll have to wait. I’m getting another call. The bad guys must be smokin’ crack tonight…”
A Marine Corps Huey landed two minutes later to medevac the wounded. The pilot offered to take the American contractor as well, but Lt. Colonel Fargo would not permit it. He had to have something to show for his efforts. He treated the contractor little better than a prisoner, forcing him to ride in the command Humvee instead of taking the relatively quick chopper ride back to a hospital and hot food.
Insurgents or no insurgents, before Fargo left the scene, he wanted a piece of Quinn. Spittle flew in all directions as he ranted and fumed. A desert camo helmet perched on an ostrichlike neck; veins throbbed and tendons tensed. His words were little more than seething, apoplectic grunts, but his meaning was clear. He had “important” connections-all the way to Congress-and he intended to see that Quinn was drummed out of the service for his disobedience.
